THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

William  P.  Y/reden 


\ 


MAN    AND   WIFE 


BY  WILKIE.  COLLINS, 


AUTHOR    OF 


'THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE,"   "NO  NAME,"   "ARMADALE,"   "THE  MOONSTONE,"  &c. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1870. 


BY  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Of  all  the  living  writers  of  English  fiction  no  one  better  understands  the  art  of  story-telling  than  Wilkie  Collins. 
He  has  a  faculty  of  coloring  the  mystery  of  a  plot,  exciting  terror,  pity,  curiosity,  and  other  passions,  such  as  belongs 
to  few,  if  any,  of  his  confreres,  however  much  they  may  excel  him  in  other  respects.  His  style,  too,  is  singularly  ap- 
propriate— less  forced  and  artificial  than  the  average  modern  novelists. — Boston  Transcript. 


MAN  AND  WIFE.     A  Novel.     With  Illustrations.     8vo,  Paper,  $i  oo;  Cloth,  $i  50. 
THE  MOONSTONE.     A  Novel.     With  Illustrations.     8vo,  Paper,  |i  50 ;  Cloth,  $2  oo. 
ARMADALE.     A  Novel.     With  Illustrations.     8vo,  Paper,  $i  60;  Cloth,  $2  oo. 
NO  NAME.     A  Novel.     Illustrated  by  JOHN  McLENAN.     8vo,  Paper,  $i  50;  Cloth,  $2  oo. 

THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE.     A  Novel.     Illustrated  by  JOHN  McLENAN.     8vo,  Paper,  £i  50 ; 
Cloth,  $2  oo. 

THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS.     A  Novel.     I2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

ANTONINA ;  or,  The  Fall  of  Rome.     A  Romance  of  the  Fifth  Century.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

Sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


MAN    AND    WIFE. 


PROLOGUE.— THE  IRISH  MARRIAGE. 

$art  tfje  JFtrst, 
THE  VILLA  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 


I. 

ON  a  summer's  morning,  between  thirty  and 
forty  years  ago,  two  girls  were  crying  bitterly  in 
the  cabin  of  an  East  Indian  passenger  ship, 
bound  outward,  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay. 

They  were  both  of  the  same  age — eighteen. 
They  had  both,  from  childhood  upward,  been 
close  and  dear  friends  at  the  same  school.  They 
were  now  parting  for  the  first  time — and  parting, 
it  might  be,  for  life. 

The  name  of  one  was  Blanche.  The  name  of 
the  other  was  Anne. 

Both  were  the  children  of  poor  parents ;  both 
had  been  pupil-teachers  at  the  school ;  and  both 
were  destined  to  earn  their  own  bread.  Person- 
ally speaking,  and  socially  speaking,  these  were 
the  only  points  of  resemblance  between  them. 

Blanche  was  passably  attractive  and  passably 
intelligent,  and  no  more.  Anne  was  rarely  beau- 
tiful and  rarely  endowed.  Blanche's  parents 
were  worthy  people,  whose  first  consideratio*n 
was  to  secure,  at  any  sacrifice,  the  future  well- 
being  of  their  child.  Anne's  parents  were  heart- 
less and  depraved.  Their  one  idea,  in  connec- 
tion with  their  daughter,  was  to  speculate  on  her 
beauty,  and  to  turn  her  abilities  to  profitable  ac- 
count. 

The  girls  were  starting  in  life  under  widely 
different  conditions.  Blanche  was  going  to  In- 
dia, to  be  governess  in  the  household  of  a  Judge, 
under  care  of  the  Judge's  wife.  Anne  was  to 
wait  at  home  until  the  first  opportunity  offered 
of  sending  her  cheaply  to  Milan.  There,  among 
strangers,  she  was  to  be  perfected  in  the  actress's 
and  the  singer's  art ;  then  to  return  to  England, 
and  make  the  fortune  of  her  family  on  the  lyric 


Such  we_re  the  prospects  of  the  two  as  they 
sat  together  in  the  cabin  of  the  Indiaman  locked 
fast  in  each  other's  arms,  and  crying  bitterly. 
The  whispered  farewell  talk  exchanged  between 
them — exaggerated  and  impulsive  as  girls'  talk  is 
apt  to  be — came  honestly,  in  each  case,  straight 
from  the  heart. 

".Blanche!  you  may  be  married  in  India. 
Make  your  husband  bring  you  back  to  En- 
gland." 

"  Anne !  you  may  take  a  dislike  to  the  stage. 
Come  out  to  India  if  you  do." 

"In  England  or  out  of  England,  married  or 

not  married,  we  will  meet,  darling — if  it's  years 

hence — with  all  the  old  love  between  us ;  friends 

A 


who  help  each  other,  sisters  who  trust  each  oth- 
er, for.  life!  Vow  it,  Blanche!" 

' '  I  vow  it,  Anne ! " 

"With  all  your  heart  and  soul  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart  and  soul!" 

The  sails  were  spread  to  the  wind,  and  the 
ship  began  to  move  in  the  water.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  appeal  to.  the  captain's  authority  before 
the  girls  could  be  parted.  The  captain  'inter- 
fered gently  and  firmly.  "  Come,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  putting  his  arm  round  Anne ;  "  you  won't 
mind  me  !  I  have  got  a  daughter  of  my  own. " 
Anne's  head  fell  on  the  sailor's  shoulder.  He 
put  her,  with  his  own  hands,  into  the  shore-boat 
alongside.  In  five  minutes  more  the  ship  had 
gathered  way ;  the  boat  was  at  the  landing-stage 
— and  the  girls  had  seen  the  last  of  each  other 
for  many  a  long  year  to  come. 

This  was  in  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred 
and  thirty-one. 

n. 

Twenty-four  years  later — in  the  summer  of 
eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-five — there  was  a  villa 
at  Hampstead  to  be  let,  furnished. 

The  house  was  still  occupied  by  the  persons 
who  desired  to  let  it.  On  the  evening  on  which 
this  scene  opens  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen  were 
seated  at  the  dinner-table.  The  lady  had  reach- 
ed the  mature  age  of  forty-two.  She  was  still  a 
rarely  beautiful  woman.  Her  husband,  some 
years  younger  than  herself,  faced  her  at  the  ta- 
ble, sitting  silent  and  constrained,  and  never, 
even  by  accident,  looking  at  his  wife.  The  third 
person  was  a  guest.  The  husband's  name  was 
Vanborough.  The  guest's  name  was  Kendrew. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  dinner.  The  fruit  and 
the  wine  were  on  the  table.  Mr.  Vanborough 
pushed  the  bottles  in  silence  to  Mr.  Kendrew. 
The  lady  of  the  house  looked  round  at  the  serv- 
ant who  was  waiting,  and  said,  ' '  Tell  the  chil- 
dren to  come  in. " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  girl  twelve  years  old 
entered,  leading  by  the  hand  a  younger  girl  of 
five.  They  were  both  prettily  dressed  in  white, 
with  sashes  of  the  same  shade  of  light  blue.  But 
there  was  no  family  resemblance  between  them. 
The  elder  girl  was  trail  and  delicate,  with  a  pale, 
sensitive  face.  The  younger  was  light  and  florid, 
with  round  red  cheeks  and  bright,  saucy  eyes — 
a  charming  little  picture  of  happiness  and  heajth. 

Mr.  Kendrew  looked  inquiringly  at  the  youn- 
gest of  the  two  girls. 

"  Here  is  a  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  who  is  a 
total  stranger  to  me. " 

' '  If  you  had  not  been  a  total  stranger  yourself 
for  a  whole  year  past,"  answered  Mrs.  Vanbor- 
ough, "you  would  never  have  made  that  confes- 
sion. This  is  little  Blanche — the  only  child  of 


10 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


the  dearest  friend  I  have.  When  Blanche's  mo- 
ther and  I  last  saw  each  other  we  were  two  poor 
school-girls  beginning  the  world.  My  friend 
went  to  India,  and  married  there  late  in  life. 
You  may  have  heard  of  her  husband — the  famous 
Indian  officer,  Sir  Thomas  Lundie  ?  Yes :  '  the 
rich  Sir  Thomas, '  as  you  call  him.  Lady  Lundie 
is  now  on  her  way  back  to  England,  for  the  first 
time  since  she  left  it — I  am  afraid  to  say  how 
many  years  since.  I  expected  her  yesterday ;  I 
expect  her  to-day — she  may  come  at  any  mo- 
ment. We  exchanged  promises  to  meet,  in  the 
ship  that  took  her  to  India — 'vows'  we  called 
them  in  the  dear  old  times.  Imagine  how 
changed  we  shall  find  each  other  when  we  do 
meet  again  at  last !" 

"In  the  mean  time,"  said  Mr.  Kendrew,  "your 
friend  appears  to  have  sent  you  her  little  daugh- 
ter to  represent  her  ?  It's  a  long  journey  for  so 
young  a  traveler." 

"A  journey  ordered  by  the  doctors  in  India  a 
year  since,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Vanborough.  "  They  j 
said  Blanche's  health  fequired  English  air.  Sir 
Thomas  was  ill  at  the  time,  and  his  wife  couldn't 
leave  him.  She  had  to  send  the  child  to  En- 
gland, and  who  should  she  send  her  to  but  me  ? 
Look  at  her  now,  and  say  if  the  English  air  hasn't 
agreed  with  her !  We  two  mothers,  Mr.  Ken- 
drew, seem  literally  to  live  again  in  our  children. 
I  have  an  only  child.  My  friend  has  an  only 
child.  My  daughter  is  little  Anne — as  /  was. 
My  friend's  daughter  is  little  Blanche — as  she 
was.  And,  to  crown  it  all,  those  two  girls  have 
taken  the  same  fancy  to  each  other  which  we 
took  to  each  other  in  the  by-gone  days  at  school. 
One  has  often  heard  of  hereditary  hatred.  Is 
there  such  a  thing  as  hereditary  love  as  well  ?" 

Before  the  guest  could  answer,  his  attention 
was  claimed  by  the  master  of  the  house. 

"Kendrew,"  said  Mr.  Vanborough,  "when 
you  have  had  enough  of  domestic  sentiment, 
'  suppose  you  take  a  glass  of  wine  ?" 

The  words  were  spoken  with  undisguised  con- 
tempt of  tone  and  manner.  Mrs.  Vanborough's 
color  rose.  She  waited,  and  controlled  the  mo- 
mentary irritation.  When  she  spoke  to  her  hus- 
band it  was  evidently  with  a  wish  to  soothe  and 
conciliate  him. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  you  are  not  well  this 
evening?" 

"I  shall  be  better  when  those  children  have 
done  clattering  with  their  knives  and  forks. " 

The  girls  were  peeling  fruit.  The  younger 
one  went  on.  The  elder  stopped,  and  looked 
at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Vanborough  beckoned  to 
Blanche  to  come  to  her,  and  pointed  toward  the 
French  window  opening  to  the  floor. 

"  Would  you  like  to  eat  your  fruit  in  the  gar- 
den, Blanche?" 

"Yes,"  said  Blanche,  "if  Anne  will  go  with 
me." 

Anne  rose  at  once,  and  the  two  girls  went 
away  together  into  the  garden,  hand  in  hand. 
On  their  departure  Mr.  Kendrew  wisely  started 
a  new  subject.  He  referred  to  the  letting  of  the 
house. 

"The  loss  of  the  garden  will  be  a  sad  loss  to 
those  two  young  ladies,"  he  said.  "  It  really 
seems  to  be  a  pity  that  you  should  be  giving  up 
this  pretty  place. " 

"  Leaving  the  house  is  not  the  worst  of  the 
sacrifice,"  answered  Mrs.  Vanborough.  "If 


John  finds  Hampstead  too  far  for  him  from 
London,  of  course  we  must  move.  The  only 
hardship  that  I  complain  of  is  the  hardship  of 
having  the  house  to  let." 

Mr.  Vanborough  looked  across  the  table,  as 
ungraciously  as  possible,  at  his  wife. 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Vanborough  tried  to  clear  the  conjugal 
horizon  by  a  smile. 

"  My  dear  John,"  she  said,  gently,  "you  for- 
get that,  while  you  are  at  business,  I  am  here  all 
day.  I  can't  help  seeing  the  people  who  come 
to  look  at  the  house.  Such  people!"  she  con- 
tinued, turning  to  Mr.  Kendrew.  "They  dis- 
trust every  thing,  from  the  scraper  at  the  door 
to  the  chimneys  on  the  roof.  They  force  their 
way  in  at  all  hours.  They  ask  all  sorts  of  im- 
pudent questions — and  they  shqw  you  plainly 
that  they  don't  mean  to  believe  your  answers, 
before  you  have  time  to  make  them.  Some 
wretch  of  a  woman  says,  'Do  you  think  the 
drains  are  right?' — and  sniffs  suspiciously,  be- 
fore I  can  say  Yes.  Some  brute  of  a  man  asks, 
'  Are  you  quite  sure  this  house  is  solidly  built, 
ma'am?' — and  jumps  on  the  floor  at  the  full 
stretch  of  his  legs,  without  waiting  for  me  to  re- 
ply. Nobody  believes  in  our  gravel  soil  and  our 
south  aspect.  Nobody  wants  any  of  our  im- 
provements. The  moment  they  hear  of  John's 
Artesian  well,  they  look  as  if  they  never  drank 
water.  And,  if  they  happen  to  pass  my  poultry- 
yard,  they  instantly  lose  all  appreciation  of  the 
merits  of  a  fresh  egg .' " 

*  Mr.  Kendrew  laughed.  ' '  I  have  been  through 
it  all  in  my  time,"  he  said.  "The  people  who 
want  to  take  a  house  are  the  born  enemies  of  the 
people  who  want  to  let  a  house.  Odd — isn't  it, 
Vanborough  ?" 

Mr.  Vanborough's  sullen  humor  resisted  his 
Mend  as  obstinately  as  it  had  resisted  his  wife. 

' '  I  dare  say, "  he  answered.  ' '  I  wasn't  listen- 
ing." 

This  time  the  tone  was  almost  brutal.  Mrs. 
Vanborough  looked  at  her  husband  with  uncon- 
cealed surprise  and  distress. 

' '  John !"  she  said.  "  What  can  be  the  matter 
with  you  ?  Are  you  in  pain  ?" 

"A  man  may  be  anxious  and  worried,  I  sup- 
pose, without  being  actually  in  pain." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  worried.  Is  it 
business  ?" . 

"  Yes— business." 

"Consult  Mr.  Kendrew." 

"I  am  waiting  to  consult  him." 

Mrs.  Vanborough  rose  immediately.  ' '  Ring, 
dear,"  she  said,  "when  you  want  coffee."  As 
she  passed  her  husband  she  stopped  and  laid  her 
hand  tenderly  on  his  forehead.  "  I  wish  I  could 
smooth  out  tfiat  frown !"  she  whispered.  Mr. 
Vanborough  impatiently  shook  his  head.  Mrs. 
Vanborough  sighed  as  she  turned  to  the  door. 
Her  husband  called  to  her  before  she  could  leave 
the  room. 

"  Mind  we  are  not  interrupted ! " 

"I  will  do  my  best,  John."  She  looked  at 
Mr.  Kendrew,  holding  the  door  open  for  her; 
and  resumed,  with  an  effort,  her  former  light- 
ness of  tone.  "  But  don't  forget  our  '  born  ene- 
mies!' Somebody  may  come,  even  at  this  hour 
of  the  evening,  who  wants  to  see  the  house." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  left  alone  over  their 
wine.  There  was  a  strong  personal  contrast  be- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


11 


tween  them.  Mr.  Vanborongh  was  tall  and  dark 
— a  dashing,  handsome  man ;  with  an  energy  in 
his  face  which  all  the.  world  saw ;  with  an  inbred 
falseness  under  it  which  only  a  special  observer 
could  detect.  Mr.  Kendrew  was  short  and  light 
— slow  and  awkward  in  manner,  except  when 
something  happened  to  rouse  him.  Looking  in 
his  face,  the  world  saw  an  ugly  and  undemonstra- 
tive little  man.  The  special  observer,  penetrating 
under  the  surface,  found  a  fine  nature  beneath, 
resting  on  a  steady  foundation  of  honor  and  truth. 

Mr.  Vanborough  opened  the  conversation. 

"If  you  ever  marry,"  he  said,  "don't  be  such 
a  fool,  Kendrew,  as  I  have  been.  Don't  take  a 
wife  from  the  stage. " 

"If  I  could  get  such  a  wife  as  yours,"  replied 
the  other,  ' '  I  would  take  her  from  the  stage  to- 
morrow. A  beautiful  woman,  a  clever  woman, 
a  woman  of  unblemished  character,  and  a  wo- 
man who  truly  loves  you.  Man  alive !  what  do 
you  want  more  ?" 

' '  I  want  a  great  deal  more.  I  want  a  woman 
highly  connected  and  highly  bred — a  woman  who 
can  receive  the  best  society  in  England,  and  open 
her  husband's  way  to  a  position  in  the  world." 

"A  position  in  the  world!"  cried  Mr.  Ken- 
drew. "  Here  is  a  man  whose  father  has  left 
him  half  a  million  of  money — with  the  one  con- 
dition annexed  to  it  of  taking  his  father's  place 
at  the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest  mercantile 
houses  in  England.  And  he  talks  about  a 
position,  as  if  he  was  a  junior  clerk  in  his 
own  office !  What  on  earth  does  your  ambi- 
tion see,  beyond  what  your  ambition  has  al- 
ready got?" 

Mr.  Vanborongh  finished  his  glass  of  wine, 
and  looked  his  friend  ^teadily  in  the  face. 

"My  ambition,"  he  said,  "  sees  a  Parliament- 
ary career,  with  a  Peerage  at  the  end  of  it — and 
with  no  obstacle  in  the  way  but  my  estimable 
wife." 

Mr.  Kendrew  lifted  his  hand  warningly. 
"Don't  talk  in  that  way,"  he  said.  "If 
you're  joking — it's  a  joke  I  don't  see.  If  you're 
in  earnest — you  force  a  suspicion  on  me  which  I 
would  rather  not  feel.  Let  us  change  the  sub- 


What  do 


ject. 

"  No !     Let  us  have  it  out  at  once, 
you  suspect  ?" 

''I  suspect  you  are  getting  tired  of  your  wife." 

"She  is  forty-two,  and  I  am  thirty-five;  and 
I  have  been  married  to  her  for  thirteen  years. 
You  know  all  that — and  you  only  suspectH  am 
tired  of  her.  Bless  your  innocence !  Have  you 
any  thing  more  to  say  ?" 

"If  you  force  me  to  it,  I  take  the  freedom  of 
^an  old  friend,  and  I  say  you  are  not  treating  her 
fairly.  It's  nearly  tw*  years  since  you  broke  up 
your  establishment  abroad,  and  came  to  England 
on  your  father's  death.  With  the  exception  of 
myself,  and  one  or  two  other  friends  of  former 
days,  you  have  presented  your  wife  to  nobody. 
Your  new  position  has  smoothed  the  way  for  you 
into  the  best  society.  You  never  take  your  wife 
with  you.  You  go  out  as  if  you  were  a  single 
man.  I  have  reason  to  know  that  you  are  actu- 
ally believed  to  be  a  single  man,  among  these 
new  acquaintances  of  yours,  in  more  than  one 
quarter.  Forgive  me  for  speaking  my  mind 
bluntly — I  say  what  I  think.  It's  unworthy 
of  you  to  keep  your  wife  buried  here,  as  if 
you  were  ashamed  of  her. " 


"I  am  ashamed  of  her." 

"Vanborough!" 

"  Wait  a  little !  you  are  not  to  have  it  all  your 
own  way,  my  good  fellow.  What  are  the  facts  ? 
Thirteen  years  ago  I  fell  in  love  with  a  handsome 
public  singer,  and  married  her.  My  father  was 
angry  with  me ;  and  I  had  to  go  and  live  with 
her  abroad.  It  didn't  matter,  abroad.  My 
father  forgave  me  on  his  death-bed,  and  I  had 
to  bring  her  home  again.  It  does  matter,  at 
home.  I  find  myself,  with  a  great  career  open- 
ing before  me,  tied  to  a  woman  whose  relations 
are  (as  you  well  know)  the  lowest  of  the  low.  A 
woman  without  the  slightest  distinction  of  man- 
ner, or  the  slightest  aspiration  beyond  her  nurs- 
ery and  her  kitchen,  her  piano  and  her  books'. 
Is  that  a  wife  who  can  help  me  to  make  my 
place  in  society? — who  can  smooth  my  way, 
through  social  obstacles  and  political  obstacles, 
to  the  House  of  Lords  ?  By  Jupiter !  if  ever 
there  was  a  woman  to  be  'buried'  (as  you  call 
it),  that  woman  is  my  wife.  And,  what's  more, 
if  you  want  the-  truth,  it's  because  I  can't  bury 
her  here  that  I'm  going  to  leave  this  house.  She 
has  got  a  cursed  knack  of  making  acquaintances 
wherever  she  goes.  She'll  have  a  circle  of  friends 
about  her  if  I  leave  her  in  this  neighborhood 
much  longer.  Friends  who  remember  her  as 
the  famous  opera-singer.  Friends  who  will  see 
her  swindling  scoundrel  of  a  father  (when  my 
back  is  turned)  coming  drunk  to  the  door  to  bor- 
row money  of  her !  I  tell  you,  my  marriage  has 
wrecked  my  prospects.  It's  no  use  talking  to  me 
of  my  wife's  virtues.  She  is  a  millstone  round 
my  neck,  with  all  her  virtues.  If  I  had  not  been 
a  bom  idiot  I  should  have  waited,  and  married 
a  woman  who  would  have  been  of  some  use  to 
me ;  a  woman  with  high  connections — " 

Mr.  Kendrew  touched  his  host's  arm,  and  sud- 
denly interrupted  him. 

"To  come  to  the  point,"  he  said — "  a  woman 
like  Lady  Jane  Parnell. " 

Mr.  Vanborough  started.  His  eyes  fell,  for 
the  first  time,  before  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Lady  Jane?"  he 
asked. 

"Nothing.  I  don't  move  in  Lady  Jane's 
world — but  I  do  go  sometimes  to  the  opera.  I 
saw  you  with  her  last  night  in  her  box ;  and  I 
heard  what  was  said  in  the  stalls  near  me.  You 
were  openly  spoken  of  as  the  favored  man  who 
was  singled  out  from  the  rest  by  Lady  Jane. 
Imagine  what  would  happen  if  your  wtte  heard 
that !  You  are  wrong,  Vanborough — you  are  in 
every  way  wrong.  You  alarm,  you  distress,  you 
disappoint  me.  I  never  sought  this  explanation 
— but  now  it  has  come,  I  won't  shrink  from  it. 
Reconsider  your  conduct ;  reconsider  what  you 
have  said  to  me — or  you  count  me  no  longer 
among  your  friends.  No!  I  want  no  further 
talk  about  it  now.  We  are  both  getting  hot—- 
we may  end  in  saying  what  had  better  have  been 
left  unsaid.  Once  more,  let  us  change  the  sub- 
ject. You  wrote  me  word  that  you  wanted  me 
here  to-day,  because  you  needed  my  advice 
on  a  matter  of  some  importance.  What  is 
it?" 

Silence  followed  that  question.  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough's  face  betrayed  signs  of  embarrassment. 
He  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  drank  it  at  a  draught  before  he  replied. 

"  It's  not  so  easy  to  tell  you  what  I  want," 


12 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


he  said,  "after  the  tone  you  have  taken  with  me 
about  my  wife. " 

Mr.  Kendrew  looked  surprised. 

"Is  Mrs.  Vanborough  concerned  in  the  mat- 
ter?" he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Does  she  know  about  it?" 

"No." 

"  Have  you  kept  the  thing  a  secret  out  of  re- 
gard for  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  I  any  right  to  advise  on  it ?" 

"You  have  the  right  of  an  old  friend." 

"Then,  why  not  tell  me  frankly  what  it  is?" 

There  was  another  moment  of  embarrassment 
on  Mr.  Vanborough 's  part. 

"  It  will  come  better,"  he  answered,  "  from 
third  person,  whom  I  expect  here  every  minute. 
He  is  in  possession  of  all  the  facts — and  he  is 
better  able  to  state  them  than  I  am. " 

"  Who  is  the  person?" 

"My  friend,  Delamayn." 

"Your  lawyer?" 

"  Yes — the  junior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Dela- 
mayn, Hawke,  and  Delamayn.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  him.  His  wife's  fam- 
ily were  friends  of  mine  before  he  married.  I 
don't  like  him." 

"You're  rather  hard  to  please  to-day!  Dela- 
mayn is  a  rising  man,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet. 
A  man  with  a  career  before  him,  and  with  cour- 
age enough  to  pursue  it.  He  is  going  to  leave 
the  Firm,  and  try  his  luck  at  the  Bar.  Every 
body  says  he  will  do  great  things.  What's  your 
objection  to  him  ?"  • 

"I  have  no  objection  whatever.  We  meet 
with  people  occasionally  whom  we  dislike  with- 
out knowing  why.  Without  knowing  why,  I 
dislike  Mr.  Delamayn." 

"Whatever  you  -do,  you  must  put  up  with  him 
this  evening.  He  will  be  here  directly." 

He  was  there  at  that  moment.  The  servant 
opened  the  door,  and  announced — "  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn. " 

III. 

Externally  speaking,  the  rising  solicitor,  who 
was  going  to  try  his  luck  at  the  Bar,  looked  like 
a  man  who  was  going  to  succeed.  His  hard, 
hairless  face,  his  watchful  gray  eyes,  his  thin, 
resolute  lips,  said  plainly,  in  so  many  words, 
"I  mean  to  get  on  in  the  world;  and,  if  you 
are  in  my  way,  I  mean  to  get  on  at  your  ex- 
pense." Mr.  Delamayn  was  habitually  polite  to 
every  body — but  he  had  never  been  known  to 
say  one  unnecessary  wdrd  to  his  dearest  friend. 
A  man  of  rare  ability ;  a  man  of  unblemished 
honor  (as  the  code  of  the  world  goes) ;  but  not 
a  man  to  be  taken  familiarly  by  the  hand.  You 
would  never  have  borrowed  money  of  him — but 
you  would  have  trusted  him  with  untold  gold. 
Involved  in  private  and  personal  troubles,  you 
would  have  hesitated  at  asking  him  to  help  you. 
Involved  in  public  and  producible  troubles,  you 
would  have  said,  Here  is  my  man.  Sure  to  push 
his  way — nobody  could  look  at  him  and  doubt 
it — sure  t»  push  his  way. 

"  Kendrew  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said  Mr. 
Vanborough,  addressing  himself  to  the  lawyer. 
"  Whatever  you  have  to  say  to  me  you  may  say 
before  him.  Will  you  have  some  wine  ?" 

"  No — thank  you. " 


"  Have  you  brought  any  news  ?" 

"Yes." 

' '  Have  3jou  got  the  written  opinions  of  the  two 
barristers  ?" 

"No."  ^ 

"Why  not?"* 

"Because  nothing  of  the  sort  is  necessary. 
If  the  facts  of  the  case  are  correctly  stated  there 
is  not  the  slightest  doubt  about  the  law. " 

With  that  reply  Mr.  Delamayn  took  a  writ- 
ten paper  from  his  pocket,  and  spread  it  out  on 
the  table  before  him. 

"  What  is  that?"  asked  Mr.  Vanborough. 

"  The  case  relating  to  your  marriage." 

Mr.  Kendrew  started,  and  showed  the  first 
tokens  of  interest  in  the  proceedings  which  had 
a  (.escaped  him  yet.  Mr.  Delamayn  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment,  and  went  on. 

4  4  The  case, "  he  resumed,  ' '  as  originally  stated 
by  you,  and  taken  down  in  writing  by  our  head- 
clerk.  " 

Mr.  Vanborough's  temper  began  to  show  it- 
self again. 

-"What  have  we  got  to  do  with  that  now?" 
he  asked.  "You  have  made  your  inquiries  to 
prove  the  correctness  of  my  statement — haven't 
you  ?" 

"Yes." 

44  And  you  have  found  out  that  I  am  right  ?" 

44 1  have  found  out  that  you  are  right — if  the 
case  is  right.  I  wish  to  be  sure  that  no  mistake 
has  occurred  between  you  and  the  clerk.  This 
is  a  very  important  matter.  I  am  going  to  take 
•the  responsibility  of  giving  an  opinion  which 
may  be  followed  by  serious  consequences;  and 
I  mean  to  assure  myself  that  the  opinion  is  given 
on  a  sound  basis,  first.  £  have  some  questions 
to  ask  you.  Don't  be  impatient,  if  you  please. 
They  won't  take  long." 

He  referred  to  the  manuscript,  and  put  the 
first  question. 

"You  were  married  at  Inchmallock,  in  Ire- 
land^, Mr.  Vanborough,  -thirteen  years  since  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Your  wife — then  Miss  Anne  Silvester — was 
a  Eoman  Catholic  ?" 

"Yes." 

41  Her  father  and  mother  were  Koman  Catho- 
lics ?" 

44  They  were."  '  * 

"Your  father  and  mother  were  Protestants? 
and  you  were  baptized  and  brought  up  in  the 
Chui«h  of  England  ?" 

44  All  right!" 

44  Miss  Anne  Silvester  felt,  and  expressed,  a 
strong  repugnance  to  marrying  you,  because  you 
and  she  belonged  to  different  religious  commu- 
nities ?" 

"She  did." 

44  You  got  over  her  objection  by  consenting 
to  become  a  Roman  Catholic,  like  herself?" 

44  It  was  the  shortest  way  with  her— and  it 
didn't  matter  to  me." 

44  You  were  formally  received  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  ?"  . 

44 1  went  through  the  whole  ceremony." 

44  Abroad  or  at  home?" 

44  Abroad." 

4 'How  long  was  it  before  the  date  of  your 
marriage  ?" 

"  Six  weeks  before  I  was  married." 

Referring  perpetually  to  the  paper  in  his  hand, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


13 


Mr.  Delamayn  was  especially  careful  in  compar- 
ing that  last  answer  with  the  answer  given  to 
the  head-clerk. 

"Quite  right,"  he  said,  and  went  on  with  his 
questions. 

"  The  priest  who  married  you  was  one  Am- 
brose Redman — a  young  man  recently  appointed 
to  his  clerical  duties  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  ask  if  you  were  both  Roman  Catho- 
lics ?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  he  ask  any  thing  more?" 

"No." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  never  inquired  whether  you 
had  both  been  Catholics  for  more  than  one  year 
before  you  came  to  him  to  be  married  ?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  He  must  have  forgotten  that  part  of  his 
duty — or,  being  only  a  beginner,  he  may  well  have 
been  ignoran^  of  it  altogether.  Did  neither  you 
nor  the  lady  think  of  informing  him  on  the  point?" 

"Neither  I  nor  the  lady  knew  there  was  any 
necessity  for  informing  him." 

Mr.  Delamayn  folded  up  the  manuscript,  and 
put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 

"Right,"  he  said,  "in  every  particular." 

Mr.  Vanborough's  swarthy  complexion  slowly 
turned  pale.  He  cast  one  furtive  glance  at  Mr. 
Kendrew,  and  turned  away  again. 

"Well, "  he  said  to  the  lawyer,  "  now  for  your 
opinion !  What  is  the  law  ?" 

"  The  law,"  answered  Mr.  Delamayn,  "  is  be- 
yond all  doubt  or  dispute.  Your  marriage  with 
Miss  Anne  Silvester  is  no  marriage  at  all." 

Mr.  Kendrew  started  to  his  feet. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

The  rising  solicitor  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  po- 
lite surprise.  If  Mr.  Kendrew  wanted  informa- 
tion, why  should  Mr.  Kendrew  ask  for  it  in  that 
way?  "Do  you  wish  me  to  go  into  the  law  of 
the  case  ?"  he  inquired. 

"I  do." 

Mr.  Delamayn  stated  the  law,  as  that  law  still 
stands — to  the  disgrace  of  the  English  Legisla- 
ture and  the  English  Nation. 

"By  the  Irish  Statute  of  George  the  Second," 
he  said,  "every  marriage  celebrated  by  a  Pop- 
ish priest  between  two  Protestants,  or  between 
a  Papist  and  any  person  who  has  been  a  Prot- 
estant within  twelve  months  before  the  marriage, 
is  declared  null  and  void.  And  by  two  other 
Acts  of  the  same  reign  such  a  celebration  of  mar- 
riage is  made  a  felony  on  the  part  of  the  priest. 
The  clergy  in  Ireland  of  other  religious  denom- 
inations have  been  relieved  from  this  law.  But 
it  still  remains  in  force  so  far  as  the  Roman 
Catholic  priesthood  is  concerned." 

"  Is  such  a  state  of  things  possible  in  the  age 
we  live  in !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Kendrew. 

Mr.  Delamayn  smiled.  He  had  outgrown  the 
customary  illusions  as  to  the  age  we  live  in. 

"  There  are  other  instances  in  which  the  Irish 
marriage-law  presents  some  curious  anomalies 
of  its  own,"  he  went  on.  "It  is  felony,  as  I 
have  just  told  you,  for  a  Roman  Catholic  priest 
to  celebrate  a  marriage  which  may  be  lawfully 
celebrated  by  a  parochial  clergyman,  a  Presby- 
terian minister,  and  a  Non -conformist  minister. 
It  is  also  felony  (by  another  law)  on  the  part  of 
a  parochial  clergyman  to  celebrate  a  marriage 
that  may  be  lawfully  celebrated  by  a  Roman 


I  Catholic  priest.  And  it  is  again  felony  (by  yet 
•  another  law)  for  a  Presbyterian  minister  and  a 
Non-conformist  minister  to  celebrate  a  marriage 
which  may  be  lawfully  celebrated  by  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Established  Church.  An  odd  state 
of  things.  Foreigners  might  possibly  think  it  a 
scandalous  state  of  things.  In  this  country  we 
don't  appear  to  mind  it.  Returning  to  the  pres- 
ent case,  the  results  stand  thus;  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough  is  a  single  man ;  Mrs.  Vanborough  is  a 
single  woman ;  their  child  is  illegitimate,  and  the 
priest,  Ambrose  Redman,  is  liable  to  be  tried, 
and  punished,  as  a  felon,  for  marrying  them. " 

"An  infamous  law!"  said  Mr.  Kendrew. 

"It  is  the  law,"  returned  Mr.  Delamayn,  as 
a  sufficient  answer  to  him. 

Thus  far  not  a  word  had  escaped  the  master 
of  the  house.  He  sat  with  his  lips  fast  closed 
and  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  table,  thinking. 

Mr.  Kendrew  turned  to  him,  and  broke  the 
silence. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  he  asked,  "that  the 
advice  you  wanted  from  me  related  to  this  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  that,  foreseeing  the 
present  interview  and  the  result  to  which  it  might 
lead,  you  felt  any  doubt  as  to  the  course  you 
were  bound  to  take  ?  Am  I  really  to  understand 
that  you  hesitate  to  set  this  dreadful  mistake 
right,  and  to  make  the  woman  who  is  your  wife 
in  the  sight  of  Heaven  your  wife  in  the  sight  of 
the  law  ?" 

"If  you  choose  to  put  it  in  that  light,"  said 
Mr. 'Vanborough ;  "  if  you  won't  consider — ' 

"  I  want  a  plain  answer  to  my  question — '  yes, 
or  no.'" 

"  Let  me  speak,  will  you !  A  man  has  a  right 
to  explain  himself,  I  suppose  ?" 

Mr.  Kendrew  stopped  him  by  a  gesture  of  dis- 
gust. 

"I  won't  trouble  you  to  explain  yourself,"  he 
said.  "I  prefer  to  leave  the  house.  You  have 
given  me  a  lesson,  Sir,  which  I  shall  not  forget. 
I  find  that  one  man  may  have  known  another 
from  the  days  when  they  were  both  boys,  and 
may  have  seen  nothing  but  the  false  surface  of 
him  in  all  that  time.  I  am  ashamed  of  having 
ever  been  your  friend.  You  are  a  stranger  to 
me  from  this  moment. " 

With  those  words  he  left  the  room. 

"That  is  a  curiously  hot-headed  man,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Delamayn.  "  If  you  will  allow  me, 
I  think  I'll  change,  my  mind.  I'll  have  a  glass 
of  wine." 

Mr.  Vanborough  rose  to  his  feet  without  re- 
plying, and  took  a  turn  in  the  room  impatiently. 
Scoundrel  as  he  was — in  intention,  if  not  yet  in 
act — the  loss  of  the  oldest  friend  he  had  in  the 
world  staggered  him  for  the  moment. 

"  Tliis  is  an  awkward  business,  Delamayn," 
he  said.  "  What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?" 

Mr.  Ij^elamayn  shook  his  head,  and  sipped  his 
claret. 

'•  I  decline  to  advise  you,"  he  answered.  "  I 
take  no  responsibility,  beyond  the  responsibility 
of  stating  the  law  as  it  stands,  in  your  case." 

Mr.  Vanborough  sat  down  again  at  the  table, 
to  consider  the  alternative  of  asserting  or  not  as- 
serting his  freedom  from  the  marriage  tie.  He 
had  not  had  much  time  thus  far  fof  turning  the 
matter  over  in  his  mind.  But  for  his  residence 
on  the  Continent  the  question  of  the  flaw  in  his 


14 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


marriage  might  no  doubt  have  been  raised  long 
since.  As  things  were,  the  question  had  only 
taken  its  rise  in  a  chance  conversation  with  Mr. 
Delamayn  in  the  summer  of  that  year. 

For  some  minutes  the  lawyer  sat  silent,  sipping 
his  wine,  and  the  husband  sat  silent,  thinking  his 
own  thoughts.  The  first  change  that  came  over 
the  scene  was  produced  by  the  appearance  of  a 
servant  in  the  dining-room. 

Mr.  Van'borough  looked  up  at  the  man  with  a 
sudden  outbreak  of  anger. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?" 

The  man  was  a  well-bred  English  servant.  In 
other  words,  a  human  machine,  doing  its  duty 
impenetrably  when  it  was  once  wound  up.  He 
had  his  words  to  speak,  and  he  spoke  them. 

"  There  is  a  lady  at  the  door,  Sir,  who  wishes 
to  see  the  house." 

"The  house  is  not  to  be  seen  at  this  time  of 
the  evening." 

The  machine  had  a  message  to  deliver,  and 
delivered  it. 

"  The  lady  desired  me.to  present  her  apologies, 
Sir.  I  was  to  tell  you  she  was  much  pressed  for 
time.  This  was  the  last  house  on  the  house 
agent's  list,  and  her  coachman  is  Stupid  about 
finding  his  way  in  strange  places. " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  and  tell  the  lady  to  go 
to  the  devil !" 

Mr.  Delamayn  interfered — partly  in  the  inter- 
ests of  his  client,  partly  in  the  interests  of  pro- 
priety. 

"  You  attach  some  importance,  I  think,  to  let- 
ting this  house  as  soon  as  possible  ?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

"Is  it  wise — on  account  of  a  momentary  an- 
noyance— to  lose  an  opportunity  of  laying  your 
hand  on  a  tenant?" 

"Wise  or  not,  it's  an  infernal  nuisance  to  be 
disturbed  by  a  stranger." 

"Just  as  you  please.  I  don't  wish  to  inter- 
fere. I  only  wish  to  say — in  case  you  are  think- 
ing of  my  convenience  as  your  guest — that  it  will 
be  no  nuisance  to  me. " 

The  servant  impenetrably  waited.  Mr.  Van- 
borough  impatiently  gave  way. 

"Very  well.  Let  her  in.  Mind,  if  she  comes 
here,  she's  only  to  look  into  the  room,  and  go  out 
again.  If  she  .wants  to  ask  questions,  she  must 
go  to  the  agent." 

Mr.  Delamayn  interfered  once  more,  in  the  in- 
terests, this  time,  of  the  -lady  of  the  house. 

"Might  it  not  be  desirable,"  he  suggested, 
"  to  consult  Mrs.  Vanborough  before  you  quite 
decide  ?" 

"  Where's  your  mistress  ?" 

"In  the  garden,  or  the  paddock,  Sir — I  am 
not  sure  which." 

' '  We  can't  send  all  over  the  grounds  in  search 
of  her.  •  Tell  the  house-maid,  and  show  the  lady 
in." 

The  servant  withdrew.  Mr.  Delamayn  helped 
himself  to  a  second  glass  of  wine. 

"  Excellent  claret,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  get  it 
direct  from  Bordeaux  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Mi-.  Vanborough  had 
returned  to  the  contemplation  of  the  alternative 
between  freeing  himself  or  not  freeing  himself 
from  the  mai'riage  tie.  One  of  his  elbows  was 
on  the  tables  he  bit  fiercely  at  his  finger-nails.  He 
muttered  between  his  teeth,  "  What  am  I  to 
do  ?" 


A  sound  of  rustling  silk  made  itself  gently  aud- 
ible in  the  passage  outside.  The  door  opened, 
and  the  lady  who  had  come  to  see  the  house  ap- 
peared in  the  dining-room. 

IV. 

She  was  tall  and  elegant ;  beautifully  dressed, 
in  the  happiest  combination  of  simplicity  and 
splendor.  A  light  summer  veil  hung  over  her 
face.  She  lifted  it,  and  made  her  apologies  for 
disturbing  the  gentlemen  over  their  wine,  with 
the  unaffected  ease  and  grace  of  a  highly-bred 
woman. 

"Fray  accept  my  excuses  for  this  intrusion. 
I  am  ashamed  to  disturb  you.  One  look  at  the 
room  will  be  quite  enough." 

Thus  far  she  had  addressed  Mr.  Delamayn, 
who  happened  to  be  nearest  to  her.  Looking 
round  the  room  her  eye  fell  on  Mr.  Vanborough. 
She  started,  with  a  loud  exclamation  of  aston- 
ishment. "YbM/"  she  said.  "Good  Heav- 
ens !  who  would  have  thought  of  meeting  you 
here  ?" 

Mr.  Vanborough,  on  his  side,  stood  petrified. 

"Ladv  Jane!"  he  exclaimed.  "Is  it  possi- 
ble?" 

He  barely  looked  at  her  while  she  spoke.  His 
eyes  wandered  guiltily  toward  the  window  which 
led  into  the  garden.  The  situation  was  a  terri- 
ble one — equally  terrible  if  his  wife  discovered 
Lady  Jane,  or  if  Lady  Jane  discovered  his  wife. 
For  the  moment  nobody  was  visible  on  the  lawn. 
There  was  time;  if  the  chance  only  offered — 
there  was  time  for  him  to  get  the  visitor  out  of 
the  house.  The  visitor,  innocent  of  all  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth,  gayly  offered  him  her  hand. 

"I  believe  in  mesmerism  for  the  first  time," 
she  said.  "This  is  an  instance  of  magnetic 
sympathy,  Mr.  Vanborough.  An  invalid  friend 
of  mine  wants  a  furnished  house  at  Hampstead. 
I  undertake  to  find  one  for  her,  and  the  day  / 
select  to  make  the  discovery  is  the  day  you  select 
for  dining  with  a  friend.  A  last  house  at  Hamp- 
stead is  left  on  my  list — and  in  that  house  I  meet 
you.  Astonishing!"  She  turned  to  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn. "I  presume  I  am  addressing  the  owner 
of  the  house  ?"  Before  a  word  could  be  said  by 
either  of  the  gentlemen  she  noticed  the  garden. 
"What  pretty  grounds !  Do  I  see  a  lady  in  the 
garden  ?  I  hope  I  have  not  driven  her  away. " 
She  looked  round,  and  appealed  to  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough. "  Your  friend's  wife  ?"  she  asked,  and, 
on  this  occasion,  waited  for  a  reply. 

In  Mr.  Vanborough's  situation  what  reply  was 
possible  ? 

Mrs.  Vanborough  was  not  only  visible — but 
audible — in  the  garden ;  giving  her  orders  to  one 
of  the  out-of-door  servants  with  the  tone  and 
manner  which  proclaimed  the  mistress  of  the  ' 
house.  Suppose  he  said,  "  She  is  not  my  friend's 
wife  ?"  Female  curiosity  would  inevitably  put  the 
next  question,  "Who  is  she?"  Suppose  he  in- 
vented an  explanation  ?  The  explanation  would 
take  time,  and  time  would  give  his  wife  an  op- 
portunity of  discovering  Lady  Jane.  Seeing  all 
these  considerations  in  one  breathless  moment, 
Mr.  Vanborough  took  the  shortest  and  the  bold- 
est way  out  of  the  difficulty.  He  answered  silent- 
ly by  an  affirmative  inclination  of  the  head,  which 
dextrously  turned  Mrs.  Vanborough  into  Mrs. 
Delamayn,  without  allowing  Mr.  Delamayn  the 
opportunity  of  hearing  it. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


15 


But  the  lawyer's  eye  was  habitually  watchful, 
and  the  lawyer  saw  him. 

Mastering  in  a  moment  his  first  natural  aston- 
ishment at  the  liberty  taken  with  him,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion  that  there 
was  something  wrong,  and  that  there  was  an  at- 
tempt (not  to  be  permitted  for  a  moment)  to  mix 
him  up  in  it.  He  advanced,  resolute  to  contra- 
dict his  client,  to  his  client's  own  face. 

The  voluble  Lady  Jane  interrupted  him  before 
he  could  open  his  lips. 

"Might  I  ask  one  question?  Is  the  aspect 
south  ?  Of  coifrse  it  is !  I  ought  to  see  by  the 
sun  that  the  aspect  is  south.  These  and  the 
other  two  are,  I  suppose,  the  only  rooms  on  the 
ground-floor  ?  And  is  it  quiet  ?  Of  course  it's 
quiet !  A  charming  house.  Far  more  likely  to 
suit  my  friend  than  any  I  have  seen  yet.  Will 
you  give  me  the  refusal  of  it  till  to-morrow?'' 
There  she  stopped  for  breath,  and  gave  Mr.  De- 
lamayn  his  first  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her. 

"I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,"  he  began. 
"  I  really  can't — " 

Mr.  Vanborough — passing  close  behind  him, 
and  whispering  as  he  passed — stopped  the  law- 
yer before  he  could  say  a  word  more. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  contradict  me!  My 
wife  is  coming  this  way !" 

At  the  same  moment  (still  supposing  that  Sir. 
Delamayn  was  the  master  of  the  house)  Lady 
Jane  returned  to  the  charge. 

"You  appear  to  feel  some  hesitation,"  she  said. 
' '  Do  you  want  a  reference ?"  Sl\p  smiled  satiric- 
'ally,  and  summoned  her  friend  to  her  aid.  "Mr. 
Vanborough!" 

Mr.  Vanborough,  stealing  step  by  step  nearer 
to  the  window — intent,  come  what  might  of  it, 
on  keeping  his  wife  out  of  the  room — neither 
heeded  nor  heard  her.  Lady  Jane  followed 
him,  and  tapped  him  briskly  on  the  shoulder 
with  her  parasol. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Vanborough  appeared 
on  the  garden  side  of  the  window. 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  she  asked,  addressing 
her  husband,  after  one  steady  look  at  Lady  Jane. 
"  This  lady  appears  to  be  an  old  friend  of  yours." 
There  was  a  tone  of  sarcasm  in  that  allusion  to 
the  parasol,  which  might  develop  into  a  tone  of 
jealousy  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Lady  Jane  was  not  in  the  least*  disconcerted. 
She  had  her  double  privilege  of  familiarity  with 
the  men  whom  she  liked — her  privilege  as  a  wo- 
man of  high  rank,  and  her  privilege  as  a  young 
widow.  She  bowed  to  Mrs.  Vanborough,  with 
all  the  highly-finished  politeness  of  the  order  to 
which  she  belonged. 

"  The  lady  of  the  house,  I  presume  ?"  she  said, 
with  a  gracious  smile. 

Mrs.  Vanborough  returned  the  bow  coldly — 
entered  the  room  first  —  and  then  answered, 
"Yes." 

Lady  Jane  turned  to  Mr.  Vanborough. 

"Present  me!"  she  said,  submitting  resigned- 
ly to  the  formalities  of  the  middle  classes. 

Mr.  Vanborough  obeyed,  without  looking  at  his 
wife,  and  without  mentioning  his  wife's  name. 

"Lady  Jane  Parnell,"  he  said,  passing  over 
the  introduction  as  rapidly  as  possible.  "Let 
me  see  you  to  your  carnage.''  he  added,  offering 
his  arm.  "  I  will  take  care  that  you  have  the  re- 
fusal of  the  house.  You  may  trust  it  all  to  me." 

No !     Lady  Jane  was  accustomed  to  leave  a 


favorable  impression  behind  her  wherever  she 
went.  It  was  a  habit  with  her  to  be  charming 
(in  widely  different  ways)  to  both  sexes.  The 
social  experience  of  the  upper  classes  is,  in  En- 
gland, an  experience  of  universal  welcome.  Lady 
Jane  declined  to  leave  until  she  had  thawed  the 
icy  reception  of  the  lady  of  the  house. 

"I  must  repeat  my  apologies,"  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Vanborough,  "for  coming  at  this  inconven- 
ient time.  My  intrusion  appears  to  have  sadly 
disturbed  the  two  gentlemen.  Mr.  Vanborough 
looks  as  if  he  wished  me  a  hundred  miles  away. 
And  as  for  your  husband — "  She  stopped  and 
glanced  toward  Mr.  Delamayn.  "Pardon  me 
for  speaking  in  that  familiar  way.  I  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  husband's  name." 

In  speechless  amazement  Mrs.  Vanborough's 
eyes  followed  the  direction  of  Lady  Jane's  eyes 
— and  rested  on  the  lawyer,  personally  a  total 
stranger  to  her. 

Mr.  Delamayn,  resolutely  waiting  his  oppor- 
tunity to  speak,  seized  it  once  more — and  held 
it  this  time. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "There  is 
some  misapprehension  here,  for  which  I  am  in 
no  way  responsible.  I  am  not  that  lady's  hus- 
band." 

It  was  Lady  Jane's  turn  to  be  astonished.  She 
looked  at  the  lawyer.  Useless !  Mr.  Delamayn 
had  set  himself  right — Mr.  Delamayn  declined 
to  interfere  further.  He  silently  took  a  chair  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  Lady  Jane  addressed 
Mr.  Vanborough. 

"Whatever  the  mistake  may.be,"  she  said, 
"you  are  responsible  for  it.  You  certainly  told 
me  this  lady  was  your  friend's  wife. " 

"  What ! ! !"  cried  Mrs.  Vanborough — loudly, 
sternly,  incredulously. 

The  inbred  pride  of  the  great  lady  began  to 
appear  behind  the  thin  outer  veil  of  politeness 
that  covered  it. 

"I  will  speak  louder  if  you  wish  it,"  she  said. 
"  Mr.  Vanborough  told  me  you  were  that  gentle- 
man's wife." 

Mr.  Vanborough  whispered  fiercely  to  his  wife 
through  his  clenched  teeth. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  mistake.  Go  into  the 
garden  again ! " 

Mrs.  Vanborough's  indignatibn  was  suspended 
for  the.  moment  in  dread,  as  she  saw  the  passion 
and  the  terror  struggling  in  her  husband's  face. 

' '  How  you  look  at  me ! "  she  said.  ' '  How  you 
speak  to  me!" 

He  only  repeated,  "  Go  into  the  garden !" 

Lady  Jane  began  to  perceive,  what  the  lawyer 
had  discovered  some  minutes  previously — that 
there  was  something  wrong  in  the  villa  at  Hamp- 
stead.  The  lady  of  the  house  was  a  lady  in  an 
anomalous  position  of  some  kind.  And  as  the 
house,  to  all  appearance,  belonged  to  Mr.  Van- 
borough's  friend,  Mr.  Vanborongh's  friend  must 
(in  spite  of  his  recent  disclaimer)  be  in  some  way 
responsible  for  it.  Arriving,  naturally  enough, 
at  this  erroneous  conclusion,  Lady  Jane's  eyes 
rested  for  an  instant  on  Mr*.  Vanhorough  with  a 
finely  contemptuous  expression  of  inquiry  which 
would  have  roused  the  spirit  of  the  tamest  wo- 
man in  existence.  The  implied  insult  stung  the 
wife's  sensitive  nature  to  the  quick.  She  turned 
once  more  to  her  husband— this  time  without 
flinching. 

"Who  is  that  woman?"  she  asked. 


16 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Lady  Jane  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  The 
manner  in  which  she  wrapped  herself  up  in  her 
own  virtue,  without  the  slightest  pretension  on 
the  one  hand,  and  without  the  slightest  .compro- 
mise on  the  other,  was  a  sight  to  see. ' 

"  Mr.  Vanborough,"  she  said,  "you  offered  to 
take  me  to  my  carriage  just  now.  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand that  I  had  better  have  accepted  the  offer 
at  once.  Give  me  youf  arm." 

"Stop!"  said  Mrs.  Vanborough,  "your  lady- 
ship's looks  are  looks  of  contempt ;  your  lady- 
ship's words  can  bear  but  one  interpretation.  I 
am  innocently  involved  in  some  vile  deception 
which  I  don't  understand.  But  this  I  do  know 
— I  won't  submit  to  be  insulted  in  my  own  house. 
After  what  you  have  just  said  I  forbid  my  hus- 
band to  give  you  his  arm. " 

Her  husband.! 

.  Lady  Jane  looked  at  Mr.  Vanborough — at  Mr. 
Vanborough,  whom  she  loved ;  whom  she  had 
honestly  believed  to  be  a  single  man  ;  whom  she 
had  suspected,  up  to  that  moment,  of  nothing 
'worse  than  of  trying  to  screen  the  frailties  of  his 
friend.  She  dropped  her  highly-bred  tone ;  she 
lost  her  highly-bred  manners.  The  sense  of  her 
injury  (if  this  was  true),  the  pang  of  her  jealousy 
(if  that  woman  was  his  wife),  stripped  the  human 
nature  in  her  bare  of  all  disguises,  raised  the  an- 
gry color  in  her  cheeks,  and  struck  the  angry  fire 
out  of  her  eyes. 

"If  you  can  tell  the  truth,' Sir,"  she  said, 
haughtily,  "be  so  good  as  to  tell  it  now.  Have 
you  been  falsely  presenting  yourself  to  the  world 
— falsely  presenting  yourself  to  me — in  the  char- 
acter and  with  the  aspirations  of  a  single  man  ? 
Is  that  lady  your  wife?" 

"Do  you  hear  her?  do  you  see  her?"  cried 
Mrs.  Vanborough,  appealing  to  her  husband,  in 
her  turn.  She  suddenly  drew  back  from  him, 
shuddering  from  head  to  foot.  "He hesitates !" 
she  said  to  herself,  faintly.  "  Good  God !  he  hes- 
itates!" 

Lady  Jane  sternly  repeated  her  question. 

"Is  that  lady  your  wife?" 

He  roused  his  scoundrel-courage,  and  said  the 
fatal  word : 

"No!" 

Mrs.  Vanborough  staggered  back.  She  caught 
at  the  white  curtains  of  the  window  to  save  her- 
self from  falling,  and  tore  them.  She  looked  at 
her  husband,  with  the  torn  curtain  clenched  fast 
in  her  hand.  She  asked  herself,  "Am  I  mad? 
or  is  he?" 

Lady  Jane  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He 
was  not  married !  He  was  only  a  profligate  single 
man.  A  profligate  single  man  is  shocking — but 
reclaimable.  It  is  possible  to  blame  him  severe- 
ly, and  to  insist  on  his  reformation  in  the  most 
uncompromising  terms.  It  is  also  possible  to 
forgive  him,  and  marry  him.  Lady  Jane  took 
the  necessary  position  under  the  circumstances 
with  perfect  tact.  She  inflicted  reproof  'in  the 
present  without  excluding  hope  in  the  future. 

"I  have  made  a  very  painful  discovery,"  she 
said,  gravely,  'to  Mr.  Vanborough.  "It  rests  with 
you  to  persuade  me  to  forget  it !  Good-evening ! " 

She  accompanied  the  last  words  by  a  farewell 
look  which  aroused  Mrs.  Vanborough  to  frenzy. 
She  sprang  forward  and  prevented  Lady  Jane 
from  leaving  the  room. 

"  No !"  she  said*.     "  You  don't  go  yet !" . 

Mr.  Vanborough  came  forward  to  interfere. 


His  wife  eyed  him  with  a  terrible  look,  and 
turned  from  him  with  a  terrible  contempt. 
"That  man.  has  lied!"  she  said.  "In  justice 
to  myself,  I  insist  on  proving  it!"  She  struck  a 
bell  on  a  table  near  her.  The  servant  came  in. 
"  Fetch  my  writing-desk  out  of  the  next  room." 
She  waited — with  her  back  turned  on  her  hus- 
band, with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Lady  Jane.  De- 
fenseless and  alone  she  stood  on  the  wreck  of  her 
married  life,  superior  to  the  husband's  treachery, 
the  lawyer's  indifference,  and  her  rival's  con- 
tempt. At  that  dreadful  moment  her  beauty 
shone  out  again  with  a  gleam  'of  its  old  glory. 
The  grand  woman,  who  in  the  old  stage  days  had 
held  thousands  breathless  over  the  mimic  woes 
of  the  scene,  stood  there  grander  than  ever,,  in 
her  own  woe,  and  held  the  three  people  who 
looked  at  her  breathless  till  she  spoke  again. 

The  servant  came  in  with  the  desk.  She  took 
out  a  paper  and  handed  it  to  Lady  Jane. 

"  I  was  a  singer  on  the  stage,"  she  said,  "  when 
I  was  a  single  woman.  The  slander  to  which 
such  women  are  exposed  doubted  my  marriage. 
I  provided  myself  with  the  paper  in  your  hand. 
It  speaks  for  itself.  Even  the  highest  society, 
madam,  respects  that !" 

Lady  Jane  examined  the  paper.  It  was  a 
marriage -certificate.  She  turned  deadly  pale, 
and  beckoned  to  Mr.  Vanborough.  "Are  you 
deceiving  me  ?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Vanborough  looked  hack  into  the  far 
corner  of  the  room,  in  which  the  lawyer  sat,  im- 
penetrably waiting  for  events.  "  Oblige  me  by 
coming  here  for  a  moment,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Delaniayn  rose  and  complied  with  the  re- 
quest. Mr.  Vanborough  addressed  himself 'to 
Lady  Jane. 

"  I  beg  to  refer  you  to  my  man  of  business. 
•He  is  not  interested  in  deceiving  you." 

"  Am  I  required  simply  t£>  speak  to  the  fact?'' 
asked  Mr.  Delamayn.  "  I  decline  to  do  more." 

"  You  are  not  wanted  to  do  more." 

Listening  intently  to  that  interchange  of  ques- 
tion and  answer,  Mrs.  Vanborough  advanced  a 
step  in  silence.  The  high  courage  that  had  sus- 
tained her  against  outrage  which  had  openly  de- 
clared itself  shrank  under  the  sense  of  something 
coming  which  she  had  not  foreseen.  A  nameless 
dread  throbbed  at  her  heart  and  crept  among  the 
roots  of  her  hair. 

Lady  Jane  handed  the  certificate  to  the  lawyer. 
%'In  two  words,  Sir,"  she  said,  impatiently, 
"what  is  this?" 

***  In  two  words,  madam,"  answered  Mr.  Dela- 
tnayn  ;   "  waste  paper." 

"  He  is  not  married  ?" 

"  He  is  not  married." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Lady  Jane  looked, 
round  at  Mrs.  Vanborough,  standing  silent  at  her 
side — looked,  and  started  back  in  terror.  ' '  Take 
me  away!"  she  cried,  shrinking  from  the  ghastly 
face  that  confronted  her  with  the  fixed  stare  of 
agony  in  the  great,  glittering  eyes.  "Take  me 
away!  That  woman  will  murder  me!" 

Mr.  Vanborough  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  her 
to  the  door.  There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room 
as  he  did  it.  Step  by  step  the  wife's  eyes  fol- 
lowed them  with  thje  same  dreadful  stare,  till  the 
door  closed  and  shut  them  out.  The  lawyer,  left 
alone  with  the  disowned  and  deserted  woman, 
put  the  useless  certificate  silently  on  the  table. 
She  looked  from  him  to  the  paper,  and  dropped, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


17 


"IS    THAT    LADT    TOUR    WIFE?" 


without  a  cry  to  warn  him,  without  an  effort  to 
save  herself,  senseless  at  his  feet. 

fie  lifted  her  from  the  floor  and  placed  her  on 
the  sofa,  and  waited  to  see  if  Mr.  Vanborough 
would  come  hack.  Looking  at  the  beautiful  face 
— still  beautiful,  even  in  the  swoon— he  owned  it 


was  hard  on  her.  Yes !  in  his  own  impenetrable 
way,  the  rising  lawyer  owned  it  was  hard  on  her. 

But  the  law  justified  it.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  this  case.  The  law  justified  it. 

The  trampling  of  horses  and  the  grating  of 
wheels  sounded  outside.  Lady  Jane's  carriage 


18 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


was  driving  away.  Would  the  husband  come 
back  ?  (See  what  a  thing  habit  is !  Even  Mr. 
Delamayn  still  mechanically  thought  of  him  as 
the  husband — in  the  face  of  the  law !  in  the  face 
of  the  facts !) 

No.  The  minutes  passed.  And  no  sign  of 
the  husband  coming  back. 

It  was  not  wise  to  make  a  scandal  in  the  house. 
It  was  not  desirable  (on  his  own  sole  responsibil- 
ity) to  let  the  servants  see  what  had  happened. 
Still,  there  she  lay  senseless.  The  cool  evening 
air  came  in  through  the  open  window  and  lifted 
the  light  ribbons  in  her  lace  cap,  lifted  the  little 
lock  of  hair  that  had  broken  loose  and  drooped 
over  her  neck.  Still,  there  she  lay — the  wife  who 
had  loved  him,  the  mother  of  his  child — there 
she  lay. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  ring  the  bell  and 
summon  help. 

At  the  same  moment  the  quiet  of  the  summer 
evening  was  once  more  disturbed.  He  held  his 
hand  suspended  over  the  bell.  The  noise  outside 
came  nearer.  It  was  again  the  trampling  of 
horses  and  the  grating  of  wheels.  Advancing — 
rapidly  advancing — stopping  at  the  house. 

Was  Lady  Jane  commg  back  ? 

Was  the  husband  coming  back  ? 

There  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell — a  quick 
opening  of  the  house-door — a  rustling  of  a  wo- 
man's dress  in  the  passage.  The  door  of  the 
room  opened,  and  the  woman  appeared — alone. 
Not  Lady  Jane.  A  stranger — older,  years  older, 
than  Lady  Jane.  A  plain  woman,  perhaps,  at 
other  times.  A  woman  almost  beautiful,  now, 
with  the  eager  happiness  that  beamed  in  her 
face. 

She  saw  the  figure  on  the  sofa.  She  ran  to  it 
with  a  cry — a. cry  of  recognition  and  a  cry  of 
teiTor  in  one.  She  dropped  on  her  knees — and 
laid  that  helpless  head  on  her  bosom,  and  kissed, 
with  a  sister's  kisses,  that  cold,  white  cheek. 

"  Oh,  my  darling !"  she  said.  "  Is  it  thus  we 
meet  again  ?" 

Yes !  After  all  the  years  that  had  passed  since 
the  parting  in  the  cabin  of  the  ship,  it  was  thus 
the  two  school-friends  met  again. 


tjje  Second. 

THE  MARCH  OF  TIME. 

V.. 

ADVANCING  from  time  past  to  time  present, 
the  Prologue  leaves  the  date  last  attained  (the 
summer  of  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-five),  and 
travels  on  through  an  interval  of  twelve  years — 
tells  who  lived,  who  died,  who  prospered,  and 
who  failed  among  the  persons  concerned  in  the 
tragedy  at  the  Hampstead  villa — and,  this  done, 
leaves  the  reader  at  the  opening  of  THE  STORY, 
in  the  spring  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
eight. 
» 

The  record  begins  with  a  marriage — the  mar- 
riage of  Mr.  Van  borough  and  Lady  Jane  Parnell. 

In  three  months  from  the  memorable  day  when 
his  solicitor  had  informed  him  that  he  was  a  free 
man.  Mr.  Vanborough  possessed  the  wife  he  de- 
sired, to  grace  the  head  of.  his  table  and  to  push 
his  fortunes  in  the  world — the  Legislature  of 


Great  Britain  being  the  humble  servant  of  his 
treachery,  and  the  respectable  accomplice  of  his 
crime. 

He  entered  Parliament.  He  gave  (thanks  to 
his  wife)  six  of  the  grandest  dinners,  and  two  of 
the  most  crowded  balls  of  the  season.  He  made 
a  successful  first  speech  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. He  endowed  a  church  in  a  poor  neigh- 
borhood. He  wrote  an  article  which  attracted 
attention  in  a  quarterly  review.  He  discovered, 
denounced,  and  remedied  a  crying  abuse  in  the 
administration  of  a  public  charity.  He  received 
(thanks  once  more  to  his  wife)  a  member  of  the 
Royal  family  among  the  visitors  at  his  country 
house  in  the  autumn  recess.  These  were  his  tri- 
umphs, and  this  his  rate  of  progress  on  the  way 
to  the  peerage,  during  the  first  year  of  his  life  as 
the  husband  of  Lady  Jane. 

There  was  but  one  more  favor  that  Fortune 
could  confer  on  her  spoiled  child — and  Fortune 
bestowed  it.  There  was  a  spot  on  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough's  past  life  as  long  as  the  woman  lived  whom 
he  had  disowned  and  deserted.  At  the  end  of 
the  first  year  Death  took  her — and  the  spot  was 
rubbed  out. 

She  had  met  the  merciless  injury  inflicted  on 
her  with  a  rare  patience,  with  an  admirable  cour- 
age. It  is  due  to  Mr.  VanbOrough  to  admit  that 
he  broke  her  heart,  with  the  strictest  attention 
to  propriety.  He  offered  (through  his  lawyer)  a 
handsome  provision  for  her  and  for  her  child. 
It  was  rejected,  without  an  instant's  hesitation. 
She  repudiated  his  money — she  repudiated  his 
name.  By  the  name  which  she  had  borne  in  her 
maiden  days — the  name  which  she  had  made  il- 
lustrious in  her  Art — the  mother  and  daughter 
were  known  to  all  who  cared  to  inquire  after 
them  when  they  had  stink  in  the  world. 

There  was  no  false  pride  in  the  resolute  atti- 
tude which  she  thus  assumed  after  her  husband 
had  forsaken  her.  Mrs.  Silvester  (as  she  was 
now  called)  gratefully  accepted  for  herself,  and 
for  Miss  Silvester,  the  assistance  of  the  dear  old 
friend  who  ha<J  found  her  again  in  her  affliction, 
and  who  remained  faithful  to  her  to  the  end. 
They  lived  with  Lady  Lundie  until  the  mother 
was  strong' enough  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  life 
which  she  had  arranged  for  the  future,  and  to 
earn  her  bread  as  a  teacher  of  singing.  To  all 
appearance  she  rallied,  and  became  herself  again, 
in  a  few  months'  time.  She  was  making  her 
way ;  she  was  winning  sympathy,  confidence, 
and  respect  every  wlfere — when  she  sank  sudden- 
ly at  the  opening  of  her  new  life.  Nobody  could 
account  for  it.  The  doctors  themselves  were  di- 
vided in  opinion.  Scientifically  speaking,  there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  die.  It  was  a 
mere  figure  of  speech — in  no  degree  satisfactory 
to  any  reasonable  mind — to  say,  as  Lady  Lundie 
said,  that  she  had  got  her  death-blow  on  the  day 
when  her  husband  deserted  her.  The  one  thing 
certain  was  the  fact — account  for  it  as  you  might. 
In  spite  of  science  (which  meant  little),  in  spite 
of  her  own  courage  (which  meant  much),  the 
woman  dropped  at  her  post  and  died. 

In  the  latter  part  of  her  illness  her  mind  gave 
way.  The  friend  of  her  old  school-days,  sitting 
at  the  bedside,  heard  her  talking  as  if  she  thought 
lierself  back  again  in  the  cabin  of  the  ship.  The 
aoor  soul  found  the  tone,  almost  the  look,  that 
iiad  been  lost  for  so  many  years — the  tone  Of  the 
past  time  when  the  two  girls  had  gone  their  dif- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


19 


WILL   SHE   END    LIKE   ME?" 


ferent  ways  in  the  world.     She  said,  •«  we  will   looked  at  Lady  Lundie,  ^d  woke,  as  it  seeme<l, 
meet,  darling,  with  all  the  old  love  between  ns, 
just  as  she  had  said  almost  a  lifetime  since 


Before  the  end  her  mind  rallied.  She  surprised 
the  doctor  and  the  nurse  hy  begging  them  gently 
to  leave  the  room.  When  they  had  gone  she 


to  consciousness  from  a  dream. 

"Blanche,"  she  said,  "you  will  take  care  o 
mv  child  ?" 

""  She  shall  be  my  child,  Anne,  when  you  are 


gone. 


20 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


The  dying  woman  paused,  and  thought  for  a 
little.  A  sudden  trembling  seized  her. 

"  Keep  it  a  secret!"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid 
for  my  child." 

' '  Afraid  ?     After  what  I  have  promised  you  ?" 

She  solemnly  repeated  the  words,  ' '  I  am  afraid 
for  my  child. " 
'Why?" 

'  My  Anne  is  my  second  self — isn't  she  ?" 
'Yes." 

'  She  is  as  fond  of  your  child  as  I  was  of  you  ?" 
'Yes." 

'  She  is  not  called  by  her  father's  name — she 
is  called  by  mine.  She  is  Anne  Silvester  as  I 
was.  Blanche !  Will  she  end  like  Me  f" 

The  question  was  put  with  the  laboring  breath, 
with  the  heavy  accents  which  tell  that  death  is 
near.  It  chilled  the  living  woman  who  heard  it 
to  the  marrow  of  her  bones. 

"  Don't  think  that !"  she  cried,  horror-struck. 
"For  God's  sake,  don't  think  that!" 

The  wildness  began  to  appear  again  in  Anne 
Silvester's  eyes.  She  made  feebly  -  impatient 
signs  with  her  hands.  Lady  Lundie  bent  over 
her,  and  heard  her  whisper,  "Lift  me  up." 

She  lay  in  her  friend's  arms ;  she  looked  up  in 
her  friend's  face ;  she  went  back  wildly  to  her 
fear  for  her  child. 

"Don't  bring  her  up  like  Me!  She  must  be 
a  governess — she  must  get  her  bread.  Don't  let 
her  act !  don'-t  let  her  sing !  don't  let  her  go  on 
the  stage !"  'She  stopped — her  voice  suddenly 
recovered  its  sweetness  of  tone — she  smiled  faint- 
ly— she  said  the  old  girlish  words  once  more,  in 
the  old  girlish  way,  "  Vow  it,  Blanche!"  Lady 
Lundie  kissed  her,  and  answered,  as  she  had  an- 
swered when^hey  parted  in  the  ship,  "  I  vow  it, 
Anne ! " 

The  head  sank,  never  to  be  lifted  more.  The 
last  look  of  life  nickered  in  the  filmy  eyes  and 
went  out.  For  a  moment  afterward  her  lips 
moved.  Lady  Lundie  put  her  ear  close  to  them, 
and  heard  the  dreadful  question  reiterated,  in 
the  same  dreadful  words :  "  She  is  Anne  Silves-v 

ter — as  I  was.      Will  she  end  like  Me  f 

• 

VL 

Five  years  passed — and  the  lives  of  the  three 
men  who  had  sat  at  the  dinner-table  in  the 
Hampstead  villa  began,  in  their  altered  aspects, 
to  reveal  the  progress  of  time  and  change. 

Mr.  Kendrew;  Mr.  Delamayn;  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough.  Let  the  order  in  which  -they  are  h^re 
named  "be  the  order  in  which  their  lives  are  re- 
viewed, as  seen  once  more  after  a  lapse  of  five 
years. 

How  the  husband's  friend  marked  his  sense  of 
the  husband's  treachery  has  been  told  already. 
How  lie  felt  the  death  of  the  deserted  wife  is  still 
left  to  tell.  Report,  which  sees  the  inmost  hearts 
of  men,  and  delights  in  turning  them  outward  to 
the  public  view,  had  always  declared  that  Mr. 
Kendrew's  life  had  its  secret,  and  that  the  secret 
was  a  hopeless  passion  for  the  beautiful  woman 
who  had  married  his  friend.  Not  a  hint  ever 
dropped  to  any  living  soul,  not  a  word  ever 
spoken  to  the  woman  herself,  could  be  produced 
in  proof  of  the  assertion  while  the  woman  lived. 
When  she  died  Report  started  up  again  more 
confidently  than  ever,  and  appealed  to  the  man's 
own  conduct  as  proof  against  the  man  himself. 

He  attended  the  funeral — though  he  was  no 


relation.  He  took  a  few  blades  of  grass  from 
the  turf  with  which  they  covered  her  grave — 
when  he  thought  that  nobody  was  looking  at 
him.  He  disappeared  from  his  club.  He  trav- 
eled. He  came  back.  He  admitted  that  lie  was 
weary  of  England.  He  applied  for,  and  obtained, 
an  appointment  in  one  of  the  colonies.  To  what 
conclusion  did  all  this  point  ?  Was  it  not  plain  that 
his  usual  course  of  life  had  lost  its  attraction  for 
him,  when  the  object  of  his  infatuation  had  ceased 
to  exist  ?  ft  might  have  been  so — guesses  less 
likely  have  been  made  at  the  truth,  and  have  hit 
the  mark.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  certain  that  he  left 
England,  never  to  return  again.  Another  man 
lost,  Report  said.  Add  to  that,  a  man  in  ten 
thousand — and,  for  once,  Report  might  claim  to 
be  right. 

Mr.  Delamayn  comes  next. 

The  rising  solicitor  was  struck  off  the  roll,  at 
his  own  request — and  entered  himself  as  a  stu- 
dent at  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  For  three 
years  nothing  was  known  of  him  but  that  he  was 
reading  hard  and  keeping  his  terms.  He  was 
called  to  the  Bar.  His  late  partners  in  the  firm 
knew  they  could  trust  him,  and  put  business  into 
his  hands.  In  two  years  he  made  himself  a  po- 
sition in  Court.  At  the  end  of  the  two  years  he 
made  himself  a  position  out  of  Court.  He  ap- 
peared as  "Junior"  in  "a  famous  case,"  in 
which  the  honor  of  a  great  family,  and  the  title 
to  a  great  estate  were  concerned.  His  "  Senior" 
fell  ill  on  the  eve  of  the  trial.  He  conducted  the 
case  for  the  defendant  and  won  it.  The  defend- 
ant said,  "What  can  I  do  for  you?"  Mr.  De- 
lamayn answered,  "Put  me  into  Parliament." 
Being  a  landed  gentleman,  the  defendant  had 
only  to  issue  the  necessary  orders — and  behold, 
Mr.  Delamayn  was  in  Parliament ! 

In  the  House  of  Commons  the  new  member 
and  Mr.  Vanborouglf  met  again. 

They  sat  on  the  same  bench,  and  sided  with 
the  same  party.  Mr.  Delamayn  noticed  that 
Mr.  Vanborough  was  looking  old  and  worn  and 
gray.  '  He  put  a  few  questions  to  a  well-informed 
person.  The  well-informed  person  shook  his 
head.  Mr.  Vanborough  was  rich ;  Mr.  Van- 
borough  was  well-connected  (through  his  wife) ; 
Mr.  Vanborough  was  a  sound  man  in  every  sense 
of  the  word ;  6w<— nobody  liked  him.  He  had 
done  very  well  the  first  year,  and  there  it  had 
ended.  He  was  undeniably  clever,  but  he  pro- 
duced a  disagreeable  impression  in  the  House. 
He  gave  splendid. entertainments,  but  he  wasn't 
popular  in  society-  His  party  respected  him, 
but  when  they  had  any  thing  to  give  they  passed 
him  over.  He  had  a  temper  of  his  own,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told ;  and  with  nothing  against 
him — on  the  contrary,  with  every  thing  in  his 
favor — he  didn't  make  friends.  A  soured  man. 
At  home  and  abroad,  a  soured  man. 

VII. 

Five  years  more  passed,  dating  from  the  day 
when  the  deserted  wife  was  laid  in  her  grave. 
It  was  now  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
six. 

On  a  certain  day  in  that  year  two  special 
items  of  news  appeared  in  the  papers — the  news 
of  an  elevation  to  the  peerage,  and  the  news  of 
a  suicide. 

Getting  on  well  at  the  Bar,  Mr.  Delamayn  got 
on  better  still  in  Parliament.  He  became  one 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


21 


of  the  prominent  men  in  the  House.  Spoke 
clearly,  sensibly,  and  modestly,  and  was  never 
too  long.  Held  the  House,  where  men  of  high- 
er abilities  "bored"  it.  The  chiefs  of  his  party 
said  openly,  "We  must  do  something  for  Dela- 
mayn." The  opportunity  offered,  and  the  chiefs 
kept  their  word.  Their  Solicitor-General  was 
advanced  a  step,  and  they  put  Delamayn  in  his 
place.  There  was  an  outcry  on  the  part  of  the 
older  members  of  the  Bar.  The  Ministry  an- 
swered, ' '  We  want  a  man  who  is  listened  to  in 
the  House,  and  we  have  got  him."  The  papers 
supported  the  new  nomination.  A  great  debate 
came  off,  and  the  new  Solicitor-General  justified 
the  Ministry  and  the  papers.  His  enemies  said, 
derisively,  ' '  He  will  be  Lord  Chancellor  in  a 
year  or  two!"  His  friends  made  genial  jokes 
in  his  domestic  circle,  which  pointed  to  the  same 
conclusion.  They  warned  his  two  sons,  Julius 
and  Geoffrey  (then  at  college),  to  be  careful  what 
acquaintances  they  made,  as  they  might  find 
themselves  the  sons  of  a  lord  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice. It  really  began  to  look  like  something  of 
the  sort.  Always  rising,  Mr.  Delamayn  rose 
next  to  be  Attorney-General.  About  the  same 
time — so  true  it  is  that  "nothing  succeeds  like 
success" — a  childless  relative  died  and  left  him 
a  fortune.  In  the  summer  of  'sixty-six  a  Chief 
Judgeship  fell  vacant.  The  Ministry  had  made 
a  previous  appointment  which  had  been  univers- 
ally unpopular.  .They  saw  their  way  to  supply- 
ing the  place  oT  their  Attorney-General,  and 
they  offered  the  judicial  appointment  to  Mr.  De- 
lamayn. He  preferred  remaining  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  refused  to  accept  it.  The 
Ministry  declined  to  take  No  for  an  answer. 
They  whispered  confidentially,  "Will  you  take 


it  with  a  peerage?"  Mr.  Delamayn  consulted 
his  wife,  and  took  it  with  a  peerage.  The  London 
Gazette  announced  him  to  the  world  as  Baron 
Holchester  'of  Holchester.  And  the  friends  of 
the  family  nibbed  their  hands  and  said,  "  What 
did  we  tell  you  ?  Here  are  our  two  young  friends, 
Julius  and  Geoffrey,  the  sons  of  a  lord !" 

And  where  was  Mr.  Vanborough  all  this  time  ? 
Exactly  where  we  left  him  five  years  since. 

He  was  as  rich,  or  richer,  than  ever.  He  was 
as  well-connected  as  ever.  He  was  as  ambitious 
as  ever.  But  there  it  ended.  He  stood  still  in 
the  House;  he  stood  still  in  society;  nobody 
liked  him ;  he  made  no  friends.  It  was  all  the 
old  story  over  again,  with  this  difference,  that 
the  soured  man  was  sourer;  the  gray  head, 
grayer ;  and  the  irritable  temper  more  unendur- 
able than  ever.  His  wife  had  her  rooms  in  the 
house  and  he  had  his,  and  the  confidential  serv- 
ants  took  care  that  they  never -met  on  the  stairs. 
They  had  no  children.  They  only  saw  each 
other  at  their  grand  dinners  and  balls.  People 
ate  at  their  table,  and  danced  on  their  floor,  and 
compared  notes  afterward,  an,d  said  how  dull  it 
was.  Step  by  step  the  man  who  had  once  been 
Mr.  Vanborough 's  lawyer  rose,  till  the  peerage 
received  him,  and  he  could  rise  no  longer ;  while 
Mr.  Vanborough,  on  the  lower  round  of  the  lad- 
der, looked  up,  and  noted  it,  with  no  more  chance 
(rich  as  he  was  and  well-connected  as  he  was)  of 
climbing  to  the  House  of  Lords  than  your  chanco 
or  mine. 

The  man's  career  was  ended ;  and  on  the  day 
when  the  nomination  of  the  new  peer  was  an. 
nounced,  the  man  ended  with  it. 

He  laid  the  newspaper  aside  without  making 
any  remark^  and  went  out.  His  carriage  set 


"THEY  BROKE  OPEN  THE  DOOR,  AND  SAW  HIM  LYING  ON  THE  SOFA." 


22 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


him  down,  where  the  green  fields  still  remain, 
on  the  northwest  of  London,  near  the  foot-path 
which  leads  to  Hampstead.  He  walked -alone 
to  the  villa  where  he  had  once  lived  with  the 
woman  whom  he  had  so  cruelly  wronged.  New 
houses  had  risen  round  it,  part  of  the  old  garden 
had  been  spld  and  built  on.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  went  to  the  gate  and  rang  the  bell. 
He  gave  the  servant  his  card.  The  servant's 
master  knew  the  name  as  the  name  of  a  man 
of  jjpeat  wealth,  and  of  a  Member  of  Parliament. 
He  asked  politely  to  what  fortunate  circumstance 
he  owed  the  honor  of  that  visit.  Mr.  Vanbor- 
ough  answered,  briefly  and  simply,  '?  I  once 
lived  here ;  I  have  associations  with  the  place 
with  which  it  is*  not  necessary  for  me  to  trouble 
you.  Will  you  excuse  what  must  seem  to  you 
a  very  strange  request  ?  I  should  like  to  see  the 
dining-room  again,  if  there  is  no  objection,  and 
if  I  am  disturbing  nobody." 

The  "  strange  requests"  of  rich  men  are  of  the 
nature  of  "privileged  communications,"  for  this 
excellent  reason,  that  they  are  srfre  not  to  be  re- 
quests for  money.  Mr.  Vanborough  was  shown 
into  the  dining-room.  The  master  of  the  house, 
secretly  wondering,  watched  him. 

He  walked  straight  to  a  certain  spot  on  the 
*  carpet,  not  far  from  the  window  that  led  into  the 
garden,  and  nearly  opposite  the  door.  On  that 
spot  he  stood  silently,  with  his  head  on  his  breast 
— thinking.  Was  it  there  he  had  seen  her  for  the 
last  time,  on  the  day  when  he  left  the  room  for- 
ever ?  Yes ;  it  was  there.  After  a  minute  or 
so  he  roused  himself,  but  in  a  dreamy,  absent 
manner.  He  said  it  was  a  pretty  place,  and  ex- 
pressed his  thanks,  and  looked  back  before  the 
door  closed,  and  then  went  his  way  again.  His 
carriage  picked  him  up  where  it  had  set  him 
down.  He  drove  to  the  residence  of  the  new 
Lord  Holchester,  and  left  a  card  for  him.  Then 
he  went  home.  Arrived  at  his  house,  his  secre- 
tary reminded  him  that  he  had  an  appointment 
in  ten  minutes'  time.  He  thanked  the  secretary 
in  the  same  dreamy,  absent  manner  in  which  he 
had  thanked  the  owner  of  the  villa,  and  went 
into  his  dressing-roOtn.  The  person  with  whom 
he  had  made  the  appointment  came,  and  the  sec- 
retary sent  the  valet  up  stairs  to  knock  at  the 
door.  There  was  no  answer.  On  trying  the 
lock  it  proved  to  be  turned  inside.  They  broke 
open  the  door,  and  saw  him  lying  on  the  sofa. 
They  wenj  close  to  look — and  found  him  dead 
by  his  own  hand. 

VIIL 

Drawing  fast  to  its  close,  the  Prologue  reverts 
to  the  two  girls — and  tells,  in  a  few  words,  how 
the  years  passed  with  Anne  and  Blanche. 

Lady  Lundie  more  than  redeemed  the  solemn 
.  pledge  that  she  had  given  to  her  friend.  Pre- 
served from  every  temptation  which  might  lure 
her  into  a  longing  to  follow  her  mother's  ca- 
reer; trained  for  a  teacher's  life,  with  all  the 
arts  and  all  the  advantages  that  money  could 
procure,  Anne's  first  and  only  essays  as  a  gov- 
erness were  made,  under  Lady  Lundie's  own 
roof,  on  Lady  Lundie's  own  child.  The  differ- 
ence in  the  ages  of  the  girls — seven  years — the 
love  between  them,  which  seemed,  as  time  went 
on,  to  grow  with  their  growth,  favored  the  trial 
of  the  experiment.  In  .the  double  relation  of 
teacher  and  friend  to  little  Blanche,  the  girl- 


hood of  Anne  Silvester  the  younger  passed  safe- 
ly, happily,  uneventfully,  in  the  modest  sanctu- 
ary of  home.  Who  could  imagine  a  contrast 
more  complete  than  the  contrast  between  her 
early  life  and  her  mother's?  Who  could  see 
any  thing  but  a  death-bed  delusion  in  the  terri- 
ble question  which  had  tortured  the  mother's 
last  moments :  "  Will  she  end  like  Me  ?" 

•But  two  events  of  importance  occurred  in  the 
quiet  family  circle  during  the  lapse  of  years  which 
is  now  under  review.  In  eighteen  hundred  and 
fifty-eight  the  household  was  enlivened  by  the  ar- 
rival of  Sir  Thomas  Lundie.  In  eighteen  hundred 
and  sixty-five  the  household  was  broken  up  by  the 
return  of  Sir  Thomas  to  India,  accompanied  by 
his  wife. 

Lady  Lundie's  health  had  been  failing  for  some 
time  previously.  The  medical  men,  consulted  on 
the  case,  agreed  that  a  sea-voyage  was  the  one 
change  needful  to  restore  their  patient's  wasted 
strength — exactly  at  the  time,  as  it  happened, 
when  Sir  Thomas  was  due  again  in  India.  For 
his  wife's  sake,  he  agreed  to  defer  his  return,  by 
taking  the  sea-voyage  with  her.  The  one  diffi- 
culty to  get  over  was  the  difficulty  of  leaving 
Blanche  and  Anne  behind  in  England. 

Appealed  to  on  this  point,  the  doctors  had  de- 
clared that  at  Blanche's  critical  time  of  life  they 
could  not  sanction  her  going  to  India  with  her 
mother.  At  the  same  time,  near  and  dear  rela- 
tives came  forward,  who  were  ready  and  anxious 
to  give  Blanche  and  her  governess  a  home — Sir 
Thomas,  on  his  side,  engaging  to  bring  his  wife 
back  in  a  year  and  a  half,  or,  at  most,  in  two 
years'  time.  Assailed  in  all  directions,  Lady 
Lundie's  natural  unwillingness  to  leave  the  girls 
was  overruled.  She  consented  to  the  parting — 
with  a  mind  secretly  depressed,  and  secretly 
doubtful  of  the  future. 

At  the  last  moment  she  drew  Anne  Silvester 
on  one  side,  out  of  hearing  of  the  rest.  Anne 
was  then  a  young  woman  of  twenty-two,  and 
Blanche  a  girl  of  fifteen. 

"  My  dear,''  she  said,  simply,  "  I  must  tell  you 
what  I  can  not  tell  Sir  Thomas,  and  what  I  am 
afraid  to  tell  Blanche.  I  am  going  away,  with 
a  mind  that  misgives  me.  I  am  persuaded  I 
shall  not  live  to  return  to  England ;  and,  when 
I  am  dead,  I  believe  my  husband  will  marry 
again.  Years  ago  your  mother  was  uneasy,  on 
her  death-bed,  about  your  future.  1  ahi  un- 
easy, now,  about  Blanche's  future.  I  promised 
my  dear  dead  friend  that  you  should  be  like  my 
own  child  to  me — and  it  quieted  her  mind.  Quiet 
my  mind,  Anne,  before  I  go.  Whatever  happens 
in  years  to  come: — promise  me  to  be  always,  what 
you  are  now,  a  sister  to  Blanche." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  last  time.  With 
a  full  heart  Anne  Silvester  kissed  it,  and  gave  the 
promise. 

IX. 

In  two  months  from  that  time  one  of  the  fore- 
bodings which  had  weighed  on  Lady  Lundie's 
mind  was  fulfilled.  She  died  on  the  voyage, 
and  was  buried  at  sea. 

In  a  year  more  the  second  misgiving  was  con- 
firmed. Sir  Thomas  Lundie  married  again.  He 
brought  his  second  wife  to  England  toward  the 
close  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-six. 

Time,  in  the  new  household,  promised  to  pass 
as  quietly  as  in  the  old.  Sir  Thomas  remem- 
bered and  respected  the  trust  which  his  first 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


23 


wife  had  placed  in  Anne.  The  second  Lady 
Lundie,  wisely  guidjng  her  conduct  in  this  mat- 
ter by  the  conduct  of  her  husband,  left  things  as" 
she  found  them  in  the  nesv  house.  At  the  open- 
ing of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-seven  the  re- 
lations between  Anne  and  Blanche  were  rela- 
tions of  sisterly  sympathy  and  sisterly  love.  The 
prospect  in  the  future  was  as  fair  as  a  prospect 
could  be. 

At  this  date,  of  the  persons  concerned  in  the 
tragedy  of  twelve  years  since  at  the  Hampstead 
villa,  three  were  dead ;  and  one  was  self-exiled 
in  a  foreign  land.  There  now  remained  living 
Anne  and  Blanche,  who  had  been  children  at 
the  time ;  and  the  rising  solicitor  who  had  dis- 
covered the  flaw  in  the  Irish  marriage — once  Mr. 
Delamayn :  now  Lord  Holchester. 


Storg. 


FIRST  SCENE.—  THE  SUMMER-HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

THE   OWLS. 

IN  the  spring  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  sixty-eight  there  lived,  in  a  «ertain  county 
6f  North  Britain,  two  venerable  White  Owls. 

The  Owls  inhabited  a  decayed  and  deserted 
summer-house.  The  summer-house  stood  in 
grounds  attached  to  a  country  seat  in  Perth- 
shire, known  by  the  name  of  Windygates. 

The  situation  of  Windygates  had  been  skill- 
fully chosen  in  that  part  of  the  county  where 
the  fertile  lowlands  first  begin  to  merge  into  the 
mountain  region  beyond.  The  mansion-house 
was  intelligently  laid  out,  and  luxuriously  fur- 
nished. The  stables  offered  a  model  for  venti- 
lation and  space  ;  and  the  gardens  and  grounds 
were  fit  for  a  prince. 

Possessed  of  these  advantages,  at  starting, 
Windygates,  nevertheless,  went  the  road  to  ruin 
in  due  course  of  time.  The  curse  of  litigation 
fell  on  house  and  lands.  For  more  than  ten 
years  an  interminable  lawsuit  coiled  itself  closer 
and  closer  round  the  place,  sequestering  it  from 
human  habitation,  and  even  from  human  ap- 
proach. The  mansion  was  closed.  The  gar- 
den became  a  wilderness  of  weeds.  The  sum- 
mer-house was  choked  up  by  creeping  plants  ; 
and  the  appearance  of  the  creepers  was  followed 
by  the  appearance  of  the  birds  of  night. 

For  years  the  Owls  lived  undisturbed  on  the 
property  which  they  had  acquired  by  the  old- 
est of  all  existing  rights  —  the  right  of  taking. 
Throughout  the  day  they  sat  peaceful  and  sol- 
emn, with  closed  eyes,  in  the  cool  darkness  shed 
round  them  by  the  ivy.  With  the  twilight  they 
roused  themselves  softly  to  the  business  of  life. 
In  sage  and  silent  companionship  of  two,  they 
went  flying,  noiseless,  along  the  quiet  lanes  in 
search  of  a  meal.  At  one  time  they  would  beat 
a  field  like  a  setter  dog,  and  drop  down  in  an  in- 
stant on  a  mouse  unaware  of  them.  At  another 
time  —  moving  spectral  over  the  black  surface  of 
the  water  —  they  would  try  the  lake  for  a  change, 
and  catch  a  perch  as  they  had  caught  the  mouse. 
Their  catholic  digestions  were  equally  tolerant 
of  a  rat  or  an  insect.  And  there  were  moments, 
proud  moments,  in  their  lives,  when  they  were 
clever  enough  to  snatch  a  small  bird  at  roost  off- 
his  perch.  On  those  occasions  the  sense  of  su- 


periority which  the  large  bird  feels  every  where 
over  the  small,  warmed  their  cool  blood,  and  set 
them  screeching  cheerfully  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night. 

So,  for  years,  the  Owls  slept  their  happy  sleep 
by  day,  and  found  their  comfortable  meal  when 
darkness  fell.  They  had  come,  with  the  creep- 
ers, into  possession  of  the  summer-house.  Con- 
sequently, the  creepers  were  a  part  of  the  consti- 
tution of  the  summer-house.  And  consequently 
the  Owls  were  the  guardians  of  the  Constitution. 
There  are  some  human  owls  who  reason  as  tffey 
did,  and  who  are,  in  this  respect — as  also  in  re- 
spect of  snatching  smaller  birds  off  their  roosts 
— wonderfully  like  them. 

The  constitution  of  the  summer-house  had  last- 
ed until:  the  spring  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  sixty-eight,  when  the  unhallowed  footsteps 
of  innovation  passed  that  way ;  and  the  venera- 
ble privileges  of  the  Owls  were  assailed,  for  the 
first  time,  from  the  world  outside. 

Two  featherless  beings  appeared,  uninvited,  at 
the  door  of  the  summer-house,  sun-eyed  the 
constitutional  creepers,  and  said,  "These  must 
come  down" — looked  around  at  the  horrid  light 
of  noonday,  and  said,  "That  must  come  in" — 
went  away,  thereupon,  and  were  heard,  in  the 
distance,  agreeing  together,  "  To-morrow  it  shall 
be  done." 

And  the  Owls  said,  "Have  we  honored  the 
summer-house  by  occupying  it  all  these  years — 
and  is  the  horrid  light  of  noonday  to  be  let  in  on 
us  at  last?  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  the  Con- 
stitution is  destroyed!" 

They  passed  a  resolution  to  that  effect,  as  is  the 
manner  of  their  kind.  And  then  they  shut  their 
eyes  again,  and  felt  that  they  had  done  their  duty. 

The  same  night,  on  their  way  to  the  fields, 
they  observed  with  dismay  a  light  in  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  house.  What  did  the  light  mean  ? 

It  meant,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  lawsuit 
was  over  at.  last.  It  meant,  in  the  second  place, 
that  the  owner  of  Windygates,  wanting  money, 
had  decided  on  letting  the  property.  It  meant, 
in  the  third  place,  that  the  property  had  found  a 
tenant,  and  was  to  be  renovated  immediately  out 
of  doors  and  in.  The  Owls  shrieked  as  they 
flapped  along  the  lanes  in  the  darkness.  And 
that  night  they  struck  at  a  mouse — and  missed 
him. 

The  next  morning,  the  Owls — fast  asleep  in 
charge  of  the  Constitution — were  roused  by  voices 
of  featherless  beings  all  round  them.  They 
opened  their  eyes,  under  protest,  and  saw  in- 
struments of  destruction  attacking  the  creepers. 
Now  in  one  direction,  and  now  in  another,  those 
instruments  let  in  on  the  summer-house  the  hor- 
rid light  of  day.  But  the  Owls  were  equal  to 
the  occasion.  They  ruffled  their  feathers,  and 
cried,  "No  surrenaer!"  The  featherless  beings 
plied  their  work  cheerfully,  and  answered,  "  Re- 
form ! "  The  creepers  were  torn  down  this  way 
and  that.  The  horrid  daylight  poured  in  bright- 
er and  brighter.  The  Owls  had  barely  time  to 
pass  a  new  resolution,  namely,  "That  we  do 
stand  by  the  Constitution,''  when  a  ray  of  the 
outer  sunlight  flashed  into  their  eyes,  and  sent 
them  flying  headlong  to  the  nearest  shade.  There 
they  sat  winking,  while  the  summer-house  was 
cleared  of  the  rank  growth  that  had  choked  it  up, 
while  the  rotten  wood-work  was  renewed,  while 
all  the  murky  ]>l;tce  was  purified  with  air  and 


24 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


light.  And  when  the  world  saw  it,  and  said, 
"Now  we  shall  do!"  the  Owls  shut  their  eyes 
in  pious  remembrance  of  the  darkness,  and  an- 
swered, ' '  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  the  Constitu- 
tion is  destroyed !" 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

THE   GUESTS. 

WHO  was  responsible  for  the  reform  of  the 
summer-house  ? 

The  new  tenant  at  Windygates  was  responsi- 
ble. 

And  who  was  the  new  tenant  ? 

Come,  and  see. 

In  the  spring  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
eight  the  summer-house  had  been  the  dismal 
dwelh'ng-place  of  a  pair  of  owls.  In  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year  the  summer-house  was  the  live- 
ly gathering-place  of  a  crowd  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, assembled  at  a  lawn  party — the  guests 
of  the  tenant  who  had  taken  Windygates. 

The  scene — at  the  opening  of  the  party — was 
as  pleasant  to  look  at  as  light  and  beauty  and 
movement  could  make  it. 

Inside  the  summer-house  the  butterfly-bright- 
ness of  the  women  in  their  summer  dresses  shone 
radiant  out  of  the  gloom  shed  round  it  by  the 
dreary  modern  clothing  of  the  men.  Outside 
the  summer-house,  seen  through  three  arched 
openings,  the  cool  green  prospect  of  a  lawn  led 
away,  in  the  distance,  to  flower-beds  and  shrub- 
beries, and,  farther  still,  disclosed,  through  a 
break  in  the  trees,  a  grand  stone  house  which 
closed  the  view,  with  a  fountain  in  front  of  it 
playing  in  the  sun. 

They  were  half  of  them  laughing,  they  were 
all  of  them  talking — the  comfortable  hum  of  the 
voices  was  at  its  loudest ;  the  cheery  pealing  of 
the  laughter  was  soaring  to  its  highest  notes — 
when  one  dominant  voice,  rising  clear  and  shrill 
above  all  the  rest,  called  imperatively  for  silence. 
The  moment  after,  a  young  lady  stepped  into  the 
vacant  space  in  front  of  the  summer-house,  and 
surveyed  the  throng  of.  guests  as  a  general  in 
command  surveys  a  regiment  under  review. 

She  was  young,  she  was  pretty,  she  was  plump, 
she  was  fair.  She  was  not  the  least  embarrassed 
by  her  prominent  position.  She  was  dressed  in 
the  height  of  the  fashion.  A  hat,  like  a  cheese- 
plate,  was  tilted  over  her  forehead.  A  balloon 
of  light  brown  hair  soared,  fully  inflated,  from 
the  crown  of  her  head.  A  cataract  of  beads 
poured  over  her  bosom.  A  pair  of  cock-chafers 
in  enamel  (frightfully  like  the  living  originals) 
hung  at  her  ears.  Her  scantjr  skirts  shone  splen- 
did with  the  blue  of  heaven.  Her  ankles  twin- 
kled in  striped  stockings.  Her  shoes  were  of 
the  sort  called  "  Watteau. "  And  her  heels  were 
of  the  height  at  which  men  shudder,  and  ask 
themselves  (in  contemplating  an  otherwise  lov- 
able woman), ' '  Can  this  charming  person  straight- 
en her  knees  ?" 

The  young  lady  thus  presenting  herself  to  the 
general  view  was  Miss  Blanche  Lundie — once 
the  little  rosy  Blanche  whom  the  Prologue  has 
introduced  to  the  reader.  Age,  at  the  present 
time,  eighteen.  Position,  excellent.  Money, 
certain.  Temper,  quick.  Disposition,  variable. 


In  a  word,  a  child  of  the  modern  time — with  the 
merits  of  the  age  we  live  in,,  and  the  failings  of 
the  age  we  live  in — and  a  substance  of  sincerity 
and  truth  and  feeling  underlying  it  all. 

"  Now  then,  good  people, "  cried  Miss  Blanche, 
"  silence,  if  you  please !  We  are  going  to  choose 
sides  at  croquet.  Business,  business,  business !" 

Upon  this,  a  second  lady  among  the  company 
assumed  a  position  of  prominence,  and  answered 
the  young  person  who  had  just  spoken  with  a 
look  of  mild  reproof,  and  in  a  tone  of  benevolent 
protest. 

The  second  lady  was  tall,  and  solid,  and  five- 
and-thirty.  She  presented  to  the  general  observ- 
ation a  cruel  aquiline  nose,  an  obstinate  straight 
chin,  magnificent  dark  hair  and  eyes,  a  serene 
splendor  of  fawn -colored  apparel,  and  a  lazy 
grace  of  movement  which  was  attractive  at  first 
sight,  but  inexpressibly  monotonous  and  weari- 
some on  a  longer  acquaintance.  This  was  Lady 
Lundie  the  Second,  now  the  widow  (after  four 
months  only  of  married  life)  of  Sir  Thomas  Lun- 
die, deceased.  In  other  words,  the  step-mother 
of  Blanche,  and  the  enviable  person  who  had 
taken  the  house  and  lands  of  Windygates. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lady  Lundie,  "words  have 
their  meanings — even  on  a  young  lady's  lips. 
Do  you  call  Croquet,  '  business  ?' " 

"You  don't  call  it  pleasure,  surely?"  said  a 
gravely  ironical  voice  in  the  back-ground  of  the 
summer-house. 

The  ranks  of  the  visitors  parted  before  the  last 
speaker,  and  disclosed  to  view,  in  the  midst  of 
that  modern  assembly,  a  gentleman  of  the  by- 
gone time. 

The  manner  of  this  gentleman  was  distin- 
guished by  a  pliant  grace  and  courtesy  unknown 
to  the  present  generation.  The  attire  of  this 
gentleman  was  composed  of  a  many-folded  white 
cravat,  a  close -buttoned  blue  dress -coat,  and 
nankeen  trowsers  with  gaiters  to  match,  ridicu- 
lous to  the  present  generation.  The  talk  of  this 
gentleman  ran  in  an  easy  flow — revealing  an  in- 
dependent habit  of  mind,  and  exhibiting  a  care- 
fully-polished capacity  for  satirical  retort — dread- 
ed and  disliked  by  the  present  generation.  Per- 
sonally, he  was  little  and  wiry  and  slim — with  a 
bright  white  head,  and  sparkling  black  eyes,  and 
a  wry  twist  of  humor  curling  sharply  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  lips.  At  his  lower  extremities,  he 
exhibited  tne  deformity  which  is  popularly  known 
as  "  a  club-foot."  But  he  carried  his  lameness, 
as  he  carried  his  years,  gayly.  He  was  socially 
celebrated  for  his  ivory  cane,  with  a  snuft-box 
artfully  let  into  the  knob  at  the  top — and  he  was 
socially  dreaded  for  a  hatred  of  modem  institu- 
tions, which' expressed  itself  in  season  and  out 
of  season,  and  which  always  showed  the  same 
fatal  knack  of  hitting  smartly  on  the  weakest 
place.  Such  was  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  ;  brother 
of  the  late  baronet,  Sir  Thomas  ;  and  inheritor, 
at  Sir  Thomas's  death,  of  the  title  and  estates. 

Miss  Blanche — taking  no  notice  of  her  step- 
mother's reproof,  or  of  her  uncle's  commentary 
on  it — pointed  to  a  table  on  which  croquet  mal- 
lets and  balls  were  laid  ready,  and  recalled  the 
attention  of  the  company  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  I  head  one  side,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she 
resumed.  "  And  Lady  Lundie  heads  the  other. 
We  choose  our  players  turn  and  turn  about. 
Mamma  has  the  advantage  of  me  in  years.  So 
mamma  chooses  first. " 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


25 


With  a  look  at  her  step-daughter — which,  be- 
ing interpreted,  meant,  "I  would  send  you  back 
to  the  nursery,  miss,  if  I  could  !" — Lady  Lundie 
turned,  ;md  ran  her  eye  over  her  guests.  She 
had  evidently  made  up  her  mind,  beforehand, 
what  player  to  pick  out  first. 

"I  choose  Miss  Silvester,"  she  said — with  a 
special  emphasis  laid  on  the  name. 

At  that  there  was  another  parting  among  the 
crowd.  To  us  (who  know  her),  it  was  Anne 
who  now  appeared.  Strangers,  who  saw  her  for 
the  first  time,  saw  a  lady  in  die  prime  of  her  life 
— a  lady  plainly  dressed  in  unorriamented  white 
— who  advanced  slowly,  and  confronted  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house. 

A  certain  proportion — and  not  a  small  one — 
of  the  men  at  the  lawn-party  had  been  brought 
there  by  friends  who  were  privileged  to  introduce 
them.  The  moment  she  appeared  every  one  of 
those  men  suddenly  became  interested  in  the  lady 
who  had  been  chosen  first. 

"  That's  a  very  charming  woman,"  whispered 
one  of  the  strangers  at  the  house  to  one  of  the 
friends  of  the  house.  "Who  is  she?" 

The  friend  whispered  back  . 

"  Miss  Lundie's  governess — that's  all." 

The  moment  during  which  the  question  was 
put  and  answered  was  also  the  moment  which 
brought  Lady  Lundie  and  Miss  Silvester  face  to 
face,  in  the  presence  of  the  company. 

The  stranger  at  the  house  looked  at  the  two 
women,  and  whispered  again. 

"Something  wrong  between  the  lady  and  the 
governess,"  he  said. 

The  friend  looked  also,  and  answered,  in  one 
emphatic  word : 

"Evidently!" 

There  are  certain  women  whose  influence 
over  men  is  an  unfathomable  mystery  to  obs£rv- 
ers  of  their  own  sex.  The  governess  was  one 
of  those  women.  She  had  inherited  the  charm, 
but  not  the  beauty,  of  her  unhappy  mother. 
Judge  her  by  the  standard  set  up  in  the  illus- 
trated gift-books  and  the  print-shop  windows — 
and  the  sentence  must  have  inevitably  followed, 
"She  has  not  a  single  good  feature  in  her  face." 
There  was  nothing  individually  remarkable  about 
Miss  Silvester,  seen  in  a  state  of  repose.  She 
was  of  the  average  height.  She  was  as  well 
made  as  most  women.  In  hair  and  complexion, 
she  was  neither  light  nor  dark,  but  provokingly 
neutral,  just  between  the  two.  Worse  even  than 
this,  there  were  positive  defects  in  her  face, 
which  it  was  impossible  to  deny.  A  nervous 
contraction  at  one  comer  of  her  mouth  drew  up 
the  lips  out  of  the  symmetrically  right  line,  when 
they  moved.  A  nervous  uncertainty  in  the  eye 
on  the  same  side  narrowly  escaped  presenting 
the  deformity  of  a  "cast."  And  yet,  with  these 
indisputable  drawbacks,  here  was  one  of  those 
women  —  the  formidable  few  —  who  have  the 
hearts  of  men  and  the  peace  of  families  at  their 
mercy.  She  moved — and  there  was  some  subtle 
charm,  Sir,  in  the  movement,  that  made  you  look 
back,  and  suspend  your  conversation  with  your 
friend,  and  watch  her  silently  while  she  walked. 
She  sat  by  you  and  talked  to  you — and  behold, 
a  sensitive  something  passed  into  that  little  twist 
at  the  comer  of  the  mouth,  and  into  that  nerv- 
ous uncertainty  in  the  soft  gray  eye.  which  turned 
defect  into  beauty  —which  enchained  your  senses 
— which  made  your  nerves  thrill  if  she  touched 
B 


you  by  accident,  and  set  your  heart  beating  if 
you  looked  at  the  same  book  with  her,  and  felt 
her  breath  on  your  face.  All  this,  let  it  be  well 
understood,  only  happened  if  you  were  a  man. 
If  you  saw  her  with  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  the 
results  were  of  quite  another  kind.  In  that  case, 
you  merely  turned  to  your  nearest  female  friend, 
and  said,  with  unaffected  pity  for  the  other  sex, 
"What  can  the  men  see  in  her !" 

The  eyes  of  the  lady  of  the  house  and  the  eyes 
of  the  governess  met,  with  marked  distrust  on 
either  side.  Few  people  could  have  failed  to  see, 
what  the  stranger  and  the  friend  had  noticed 
alike  —  that  there  was  something  smouldering 
under  the  surfaqp  here.  Miss  Silvester  spoke  first. 

"Thank  you,  Lady  Lundie,"  she  said.  "I 
would  rather  not  play." 

Lady  Lundie  assumed  an  extreme  surprise 
which  passed  the  limits  of  good-breeding. 

"  Oh,  indeed  ?"  she  rejoined,  sharply.  "  Con- 
sidering that  we  are  all  here  for  the  purpose  of 
playing,  that  seems  rather  remarkable.  Is  any 
thing  wrong,  Miss  Silvester  ?" 

A  flush  appeared  on  the  delicate  paleness  of 
Miss  Silvester's  face.  But  she  did  her  duty  as 
a  woman  and  a  governess.  She  submitted,  and 
so  preserved  appearances,  for  that  time. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,"  she  answered.  "  I 
am  not  very  well  this  morning.  But  I  will  play 
if  you  wish  it. " 

"  I  do  wish  it,"  answered  Lady  Lundie. 

Miss  Silvester  turned  aside  toward  one  of  the 
entrances  into  the  summer-house.  She  waited 
for  events,  looking  out  over  the  lawn,  with  a 
visible  inner  disturbance,  marked  over  the  bosom 
by  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  white  dress. 

It  was  Blanche's  turn  to  select  the  next  player. 

In  some  preliminary  uncertainty  as  to  her 
choice,  she  looked  about  among  the  guests, 
and  caught  the  eye  of  a  gentleman  in  the 
front  ranks.  He  stood  side  by  side  with  Sir 
Patrick — a  striking  representative  of  the  school 
that  is  among  us — as  Sir  Patrick  was  a  strik- 
ing representative  of  the  school  that  has  passed 
away. 

The  modern  gentleman  was  young  and  florid, 
tall  and  strong.  The  parting  of  his  curly  Saxon 
locks  began  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  traveled 
over  the  top  of  his  head,  and  ended,  rigidly-cen- 
tral, at  the  ruddy  nape  of  his  neck.  His  features 
were  as  perfectly  regular  and  as  perfectly  unintel- 
ligent as  human  features  can  be.  His  expression 
preserved  an  immovable  composure'  wonderful  to 
behold.  The  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms  showed 
through  the  sleeves  of  his  light  summer  coat.  He 
was  deep  in  the  chest,  thin  in  the  flanks,  firm  on 
the  legs — in  two  words,  a  magnificent  human 
!  animal,  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  phys- 
I  ical  development,  from  head  to  foot.  This  was 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn — commonly  called  "  the 
j  honorable ;"  and  meriting  that  distinction  in  more 
ways  than  one.  He  was  honorable,  in  the  first 
place,  as  being  the  son  (second  son)  of  that  once- 
'  rising  solicitor,  who  was  now  Lord  Holchester. 
He  was  honorable,  in  the  second  place,  as  hav- 
i  ing  won  the  highest  popular  distinction  which  the 
educational  system  of  modern  England  can  be- 
stow— he  had  pulled  the  stroke-oar  in  a  Univers- 
I  ity  boat-race.  Add  to  this,  that  nobody  had  ever 
seen  him  read  any  thing  but  a  newspaper,  and 
that  nobody  had  ever  known  him  to  be  backw;  rd 
in  settling  a  bet — and  the  picture  of  this  distin- 


26 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


guished  young  Englishman  will  be,  fo£  the  pres- 
ent, complete. 

Blanche's  eye  naturally  rested  on  him. 
Blanche's  voice  naturally  picked  him  out  as 
the  first  player  on  her  side. 

"I  choose  Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  said. 

As  the  name  passed  her  lips  the  flush  on  Miss 
Silvester's  face  died  away,  and  a  deadly  paleness 
took  its  place.  She  made  a  movement  to  leave 
the  summer-house — checked  herself  abruptly — 
and  laid  one  hand  on  the  back  of  a  rustic  seat  at 
her  side.  A  gentleman  behind  her,  looking  at 
the  hand,  saw  it  clench  itself  so  suddenly  and  so 
fiercely  that  the  glove  on  it  split.  The  gentle- 
man made  a  mental  memorandum,  and  register- 
ed Miss  Silvester  in  his  private  books  as  "  the 
devil's  own  temper."  j 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Delamayn,  by  a  strange  coin- 
cidence, took  exactly  the  same  course  which  Miss 
Silvester  had  taken  before  him.  He,  too,  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  from  the  coming  game. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said.  "Could  you 
additionally  honor  me  by  choosing  somebody 
else?  It's  not  in  my  line." 

Fifty  years  ago  such  an  answer  as  this,  ad- 
dressed to  a  lady,  would  have  been  considered 
inexcusably  impertinent.  The  social  code  of  the 
present  time  hailed  it  as  something  frankly  amus- 
ing. The  company  laughed.  Blanche  lost  her 
temper. 

"  Can't  we  interest  you  in  any  thing  but  severe 
muscular  exertion,  Mr.  Delamayn?"  she  asked, 
sharply.  "Must  you  always  be  pulling  in  a 
boat-race,  or  flying  over  a  high  jump  ?  If  you 
had  a  mind,  you  would  want  to  relax  it.  You 
have  got  muscles  instead.  Why  not  relax  them  ?" 

The  shafts  of  Miss  Lundie's  bitter  wit  glided 
off  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  like  water  off  a  duck's 
back. 

"Just  as  you  please, "  he  said,  with  stolid  good- 
humor.  "  Don't  be  offended.  I  came  here  with 
ladies — and  they  wouldn't  let  me  smoke.  I  miss 
my  smoke.  I  thought  I'd  slip  away  a  bit  and 
haVe  it.  All  right !  I'll  play. " 

"Oh!  smoke  by  all  means ! "  retorted  Blanche. 
"  I  shall  choose  somebody  else.  I  won't  have 
you!" 

The  honorable  young  gentleman  looked  un- 
affectedly relieved.  The  petulant  young  lady 
turned  her  back  on  him,  and  surveyed  the 
guests  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  summer- 
house. 

"  Who  shall  I  choose?"  she  said  to  herself. 

A  dark  young  man — with  a  face  burned  gipsy- 
brown  by  the  sun ;  with  something  in  his  look 
and  manner  suggestive  of  a  roving  life,  and  per- 
haps of  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  sea — ad- 
vanced shyly,  and  said,  in  a  whisper : 

"Choose  me!" 

Blanche's  face  broke  prettily  into  a  charming 
smile.  Judging  from  appearances,  the  dark 
young  man  had  a  place  in  her  estimation  pe- 
culiarly his  own. 

"You!"  she  said,  coquettishly.  "You  are 
going  to  leave  us  in  an  hour's  time  !" 

He  ventured  a  step  nearer.  "I  am  coming 
back,"  he  pleaded,  "the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  You  play  very  badly !" 

"I  might  improve — if  you  would  teach  me." 

"Might  you ?  Then  lu-ill  teach  you ! "*  She 
turned,  bright  and  rosy,  to  her  step-mother.  "I 
choose  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth, "  she  said. 


Here,  again,  there  appeared  to  be  something 
in  a  name  unknown  to  celebrity,  which  neverthe- 
less produced  its  effect — not,  this  time,  on  Miss 
Silvester,  but  on  Sir  Patrick.  He  looked  at  Mr. 
Brinkworth  with  a  sudden  interest  and  curiosity. 
If  the  lady  of  the  house  had  not  claimed  his  at- 
tention at  the  moment  he  would  evidently  have 
spoken  to  the  dark  young  man. 

But  it  was  Lady  Lundie's  turn  to  choose  a 
second  player  on  her  side.  Her  brother-in-law 
was  a  person  of  some  importance ;  and  she  had 
her  own  motives  for  ingratiating  herself  with  the 
head  of  the  family.  She  surprised  the  whole  com- 
pany by  choosing  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Mamma !"  cried  Blanche.  "  What  can  you 
be  thinking  of?  Sir  Patrick  won't  play.  Cro- 
quet wasn't  discovered  in  his  time." 

Sir  Patrick  never  allowed  "his  time"  to  be 
made  the  subject  of  disparaging  remarks  by  the 
younger  generation  without  paying  the  younger 
generation  back  in  its  own  coin. 

"In  my  time,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  his  niece, 
"people  were  expected  to  bring  some  agreeable 
quality  with  them  to  social  meetings  of  this  sort. 
In  your  time  you  have  dispensed  with  all  that. 
Here,"  remarked  the  old  gentleman,  taking  up 
a  croquet  mallet  from  the  table  near  him,  "is 
one  of  the  qualifications  for  success  in  modern 
society.  And  here."  he  added,  taking  up  a  ball, 
"is  another.  Very  good.  Live  and  learn.  I'll 
play!  I'll  play!"  " 

Lady  Lundie  (born  impervious-to  all  sense  of 
irony)  smiled  gracious!}'. 

"I  knew  Sir  Patrick  would  play,"  she  said, 
"to  please  me." 

Sir  Patrick  bowed  with  satirical  politeness. 

"  Lady  Lundie,"  he  answered,  "you  read  me 
like  a  book."  To  the  astonishment  of  all  per- 
sons present  under  forty  he  emphasized  those 
words'  by  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and 
quoting  poetry.  "I  may  say  with  Dryden," 
added  the  gallant  old  gentleman : 

"'Old  as  I  am,  for  ladies'  love  unfit, 
The  power  of  beauty  I  remember  yet.' " 

Lady  Lundie  looked  unaffectedly  shocked. 
Mr.  Delamayn  went  a  step  farther.  He  inter- 
fered on  the  spot — with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
feels  himself  imperatively  called  upon  to  perform 
a  public  duty.  , 

"  Dryden  never  said  that, "  he  remarked,  "  I'll 
answer  for  it. " 

Sir  Patrick  wheeled  round  with  the  help  of 
his  ivory  cane,  and  looked  Mr.  Delamayn  hard 
in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  know  Dryden,  Sir,  better  than  I  do?" 
he  asked. 

The  Honorable  Geoffrey  answered,  modestly, 

I  should  say  I  did.  I  have  rowed  three  races 
with  him,  and  we  trained  together." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  him  with  a  sour  smile 
of  triumph. 

"Then  let  me  tell  you,  Sir,"  he  said,  "that 
you  trained  with  a  man  who  died  nearly  two 
hundred  years  ago. " 

Mr.  Delamayn  appealed,  in  genuine  bewilder- 
ment, to  the  company  generally  : 

"What  does  this  old  gentleman  mean?"  he 
asked.  "I  am  speaking  of  Tom  Dryden,  of 
Corpus.  Every  body  in  the  University  knows 
him. "  » 

;'I  am  speaking,"  echoed  Sir  Patrick,  "of 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


27 


John  Drydcn  the  Poet.  Apparently,  every  body 
in  the  University  does  not  know  him!"' 

Mr.  Delamayn  answered,  with  a  cordial  earn- 
estness very  pleasant  to  see  : 

"  Give  you  my  word  of  honor,  I  never  heard 
of  him  before  in  my  life  !  Don't  be  angry,  Sir. 
Pin  not  offended  with  you."  He  smiled,  and 
took- out  his  brier-wood  pipe.  "Got  a  light?'' 
he  asked,  in  the  friendliest  possible  manner. 

Sir  Patrick  answered,  with  a  total  absence  of 
cordiality : 

"  I  don't  smoke,  Sir." 

Mr.  Delamayn  looked  at  him,  without  taking 
the  slightest  offense : 

"  You  don't  smoke !"  he  repeated.  "  I  won- 
der how  you  get  through  your  spare  time?" 

Sir  Patrick  closed  the  conversation : 

"Sir,"  he  said,  with  a  low  bow,  "you  may 
wonder." 

While  this  little  skirmish  was  proceeding  Lady 
Lundie  and  her  step-daughter  had  organized  the 
game ;  and  the  company,  players  and  spectators, 
were  beginning  to  move  toward  the  lawn.  Sir 
Patrick  stopped  his  niece  on  her  way  out,  with 
the  dark  young  man  in  close  attendance  on  her. 

"  Leave  Mr.  Brinkworth  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

Blanche  issued  her  orders  immediately.  Mr. 
Brinkworth  was  sentenced  to  stay  with  Sir  Pat- 
rick until  she  wanted  him  for  the  game.  Mr. 
Brinkworth  wondered,  and  obeyed. 

During  the  exercise  of  this  act  of  authority  a 
circumstance  occurred  at  the  other  end  of  the 
summer-house.  Taking  advantage  of  the  con- 
fusion caused  by  the  general  movement  to  the 
lawn,  Miss  Silvester  suddenly  placed  herself  close 
to  Mr.  Delamayn. 

"  In  ten  minutes,"  she  whispered,  "the  sum- 
mer-house will  be  empty.  Meet  me  here." 

The  Honorable  Geoffrey  started,  and  looked 
furtively  at  the  visitors  about  him. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  safe  ?"  he  whispered  back. 

The  governess's  sensitive  lips  trembled,  with 
fear  or  with  anger,  it  was  hard  to  say  which. 

"  I  insist  on  it !"  she  answered,  and  left  him. 

Mr.  Delamayn  knitted  his  handsome  eye- 
brows as  he  looked  after  her,  and  then  left  the 
summer-house  in  his  turn.  The  rose-garden  at 
the  back  of  the  building  was  solitary  for  the  mo- 
ment. He  took  out  his  pipe  and  hid  himself 
among  the  roses.  The  smoke  came  from  his 
mouth  in  hot  and  hasty  puffs.  He  was  usually 
the  gentlest  of  masters — to  his  pipe.  When  he 
hurried  that  confidential  servant,  it  was  a  sure 
sign  of  disturbance  in  the  inner  man. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD. 

THE   DISCOVERIES. 

BUT  two  persons  were  now  left  in  the  sum- 
mer-house— Arnold  Brinkworth  and  Sir  Pat- 
rick Lundie. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
".I  have  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you 
before  this ;  and  (as  I  hear  that  you  are  to  leave 
us  to-day)  I  may  find  no  opportunity  at  a  later 
time.  I  want  to  introduce  myself.  Your  father 
was  one  of  my  dearest  friends — let  me  make  a 
friend  of  your  father's  son.'' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  mentioned  his  name. 


Arnold  recognized  it  directly.  "Oh,  Sir  Pat- 
rick!" he  said,  warmly,  "if  my  poor  father  had 
only  taken  your  advice — " 

' '  He  would  have  thought  twice  before  he 
gambled  away  his  fortune  on  the  turf;  and  he 
might  have  been  alive  here  among  us,  instead 
of  dying  an  exile  in  a  foreign  land,"  said  Sir 
Patrick,  finishing  the  sentence  which  the  other 
had  begun.  "  No  more  of  that !  Let's  talk  of 
something  else.  Lady  Lundie  wrote  to  me  about 
you  the  other  day.  She  told  me  your  aunt  was 
dead,  and  had  left  you  heir  to  her  property  in 
Scotland.  Is  that  true  ? — It  is  ? — I  congratulate 
you  with  all  my  heart.  Why  are  you  visiting 
here,  instead  of  looking  after  your  house  and 
lands  ?  Oh !  it's  only  three-and-twenty  miles 
from  this ;  and  you're  going  to  look  after'it  to- 
day, by  the  next  train?  Quite  right.  And: — 
what?  what? — coming  back  again  the  day  aft- 
er to-morrow?  Why  should  you  come  back? 
Some  special  attraction  here,  I  suppose  ?  I  hope 
it's  the  right  sort  of  attraction.  You're  very 
young — you're  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  tempta- 
tions. Have  you  got  a  solid  foundation  of  good 
sense  at  the  bottom  of  you  ?  It  is  not  inherited 
from  your  poor  father,  if  you  have.  You  must 
have  been  a  mere  boy  when  he  ruined  his  chil- 
dren's prospects.  How  have  you  lived  from  that 
time  to  this  ?  What  were  you  doing  when  your 
aunt's  will  made  an  idle  man  of  you  for  life?" 

The  question  was  a  searching  one.  Arnold 
answered  it,  without  the  slightest  hesitation; 
speaking  with  an  unaffected  modesty  and  sim- 
plicity which  at  once  won  Sir  Patrick's  heart. 

"I  was  a  boy  at  Eton,  Sir,"  he  said,  "when 
my  father's  losses  ruined  him.  I  had  to  leave 
school,  and  get  my  own  living ;  and  I  have  got 
it,  in  a  roughish  way,  from  that  time  to  this. 
In  plain  English,  I  have  followed  the  sea — in 
the  merchant-service." 

"In  plainer  English  still,  you  met  adversity 
like  a  brave  lad,  and  you  have  fairly  earned  the 
good  luck  that  has  fallen  to  you,"  rejoined  Sir 
Patrick.  "  Give  me  your  hand — I  have  taken  a 
liking  to  you.  You're  not  like  the  other  young 
fellows  of  the  present  time.  I  shall  call  you 
'Arnold.'  You  mus'n't  return  the  compliment, 
and  call  me  'Patrick,'  mind — I'm  too  old  to  be 
treated  in  that  way.  Well,  and  how  do  you  get 
on  here  ?  What  sort  of  a  woman  is  my  sister- 
in-law  ?  and  what  sort  of  a  house  is  this  ?" 

Arnold  burst  out  laughing. 

"Those  are  extraordinary  questions  for  you 
to  put  to  me,"  he  said.  "You  talk,  Sir,  as  if 
you  were  a  stranger  here !" 

Sir  Patrick  touched  a  spring  in  the  knob  of 
his  ivory  cane.  A  little  gold  lid  flew  up,  and 
disclosed  the  snuff-box  hidden  inside.  He  took 
a  pinch,  and  chuckled  satirically  over  some  pass- 
ing thought,  which  he  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  communicate  to  his  young  friend. 

"I  talk  as  if  I  was  a  stranger  here,  do  I ?"  he 
resumed.  "That's  exactly  what  I  am.  Lady 
Lundie  and  I  correspond  on  excellent  terms; 
but  we  run  in  different  grooves,  and  we  see  each 
other  as  seldom  as  possible.  My  story,"  con- 
tinued the  pleasant  old  man,  with  a  charming 
frankness  which  leveled  all  differences  of  age 
and  rank  between  Arnold  and  himself,  "  is  not 
entirely  unlike  yours ;  though  I  am  old  enough 
to  be  your  grandfather.  I  was  getting  my  living, 
in  my  way  (as  a  crusty  old  Scotch  lawyer),  when 


28 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


my  brother  married  again.  His  death,  without 
leaving  a  son  by  either  of  his  wives,  gave  me  a 
lift  in  the  world,'  like  you.  Here  I  am  (to  my 
own  sincere  regret)  the  present  baronet.  Yes, 
to  my  sincere  regret !  All  sorts  of  responsibili- 
ties which  I  never  bargained  for  are  thrust  on 
my  shoulders.  I  am  the  head  of  the  family ;  I 
am  my  niece's  guardian  ;  I  am  compelled  to  ap- 
pear at  this  lawn- party — and  (between  ourselves) 
I  am  as  completely  out  of  my  element  as  a  man 
can  be.  Not  a  single  familiar  face  meets  me 
among  all  these  fine  people.  Do  you  know  any 
body  here  ?" 

"I  have  one  friend  at  Windygates,"  said  Ar- 
nold. "He  came  here  this  morning,  like  you. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn. " 

Ah*  he  made  the  reply,  Miss  Silvester  appeared 
at  the  entrance  to  the  summer-house.  A  shadow 
of  annoyance  passed  over  her  face  when  she  saw 
that  the  place  was  occupied.  She  vanished,  un- 
noticed, and  glided  back  to  the  game. 

Sir  Patrick  looked  at  the  son  of  his  old  friend, 
with  every  appearance  of  being  disappointed  in 
the  young  man  for  the  first  time. 

"  Your  choice  of  a  friend  rather  surprises  me," 
he  said. 

Arnold  artlessly  accepted  the  words  as  an  ap- 
peal to  him  for  information. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir — there's  nothing  sur- 
prising in  it,"  he  returned.  "We  were  school- 
fellows at  Eton,  in  the  old  times.  And  I  have 
met  Geoffrey  since,  when  he  was  yachting,  and 
when  I  was  with  my  ship.  Geoffrey  saved  my 
life,  Sir  Patrick,"  he  added,  his  voice  rising,  and 
his  eyes  brightening  with  honest  admiration  of 
his  friend.  "But  for  him,  I  should  have  been 
drowned  in  a  boat-accident.  Isn't  that  a  good 
reason  for  his  being  a  friend  of  mine  ?" 

"It  depends  entirely  on  the  value  you  set  on 
your  life,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

"  The  value  I  set  on  my  life  ?"  repeated  Ar- 
nold. "  I  set  a  high  value  on  it,  of  course !" 

"In  that  case,  Mr.  Delamayn  has  laid  you 
under  an  obligation." 

"Which  I  can  never  repay!" 

"Which  you  will  repay  one  of  these  days, 
with  interest — if  I  know  any  thing  of  human 
nature,"  answered  Sir  Patrick.  • 

He  said  the  words  with  the  emphasis  of  strong 
conviction.  They  were  barely  spoken  when  Mr. 
Delamayn  appeared  (exactly  as  Miss  Silvester 
had  appeared)  at  the  entrance  to  the  summer- 
house.  He,  too,  vanished,  unnoticed — like  Miss 
Silvester  again.  But  there  the  parallel  stopped. 
The  Honorable  Geoffrey's  expression,  on  dis- 
covering the  place  to  be  occupied,  was,  unmis- 
takably, an  expression  of  relief. 

Arnold  drew  the  right  inference,  this  time, 
from  Sir  Patrick's  language  and  Sir  Patrick's 
tones.  He  eagerly  took  up  the  defense  of  his 
friend. 

"You  said  that  rather  bitterly,  Sir,"  he  re- 
marked. "What  has  Geoffrey  done  to  offend 
you?" 

"He  presumes  to  exist — that's  what  he  has 
done,"  retorted  Sir  Patrick.  "Don't  stare!  I 
am  speaking  generally.  Your  friend  is  the  model 
young  Briton  of  the  present  time.  I  don't  like 
the  model  young  Briton.  I  don't  see  the  sense- 
of  crowing  over  him  as  a  superb  national  pro- 
duction, because  he  is  big  and  strong,  and  drinks 
beer  with  impunity,  and  takes  a  cold  shower- 


bath  all  the  year  round.  There  is  far  too  much 
glorification  in  England,  just  now,  of  the  mere 
physical  qualities  which  an  Englishman  shares 
with  the  savage  and  the  brute.  And  the  ill  re- 
sults are  beginning  to  show  themselves  already ! 
We  are  readier  than  we  ever  were  to  practice 
all  that  is  rough  in  our  national  customs,  and  to 
excuse  all  that  is  violent  and  brutish  in  our  na- 
tional acts.  Read  the  popular  books — attend  the 
popular  amusements ;  and  you  will  find  at  the 
bottom  of  them  all  a  lessening  regard  for  the 
gentler  graces  of  civilized  life,  and  a  growing 
admiration  for  the  virtues  of  the  aboriginal 
Britons ! " 

Arnold  listened  in  blank  amazement.  He  had 
been  the  innocent  means  of  relieving  Sir  Pat- 
rick's mind  of  an  accumulation  of  social  protest, 
unprovided  with  an  issue  for  some  time  past. 
"  How  hot  you  are  over  it,  Sir!"  he  exclaimed, 
in  irrepressible  astonishment. 

Sir  Patrick  instantly  recovered  himself.  The 
genuine  wonder  expressed  in  the  young  man's 
face  was  irresistible. 

"  Almost  as  hot,"  he  said,  "  as  if  I  was  cheer- 
ing at  a  boat-race,  or  wrangling  over  a  betting- 
book — eh  ?  Ah,  we  were  so  easily  heated  when 
I  was  a  young  man !  Let's  change  the  subject. 
I  know  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of  your  friend, 
Mr.  Delamayn.  It's  the  cant  of  the  day,"  cried 
Sir  Patrick,  relapsing  again,  "to  take  these 
physically-wholesome  men  for  granted  as  being 
morally-wholesome  men  into  the  bargain.  Time 
will  show  whether  the  cant  of  the  day  is  right. 
— So  you  are  actually  coming  back  to  Lady  Lun- 
die's  after  a  mere  flying  visit  to  your  own  prop- 
erty? I  repeat,  that  is  a  most  extraordinary 
proceeding  on  the  part  of  a  landed  gentleman 
like  you.  What's  the  attraction  here — eh  ?" 

Before  Arnold  could  reply  Blanche  called  to 
him  from  the  lawn.  His  color  rose,  and  he 
turned  eagerly  to  go  out.  Sir  Patrick  nodded 
his  head  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been  an- 
swered to  his  own  entire  satisfaction.  "Oh!" 
he  said,  "  that's  the  attraction,  is  it?" 

Arnold's  life  at  sea  had  left  him  singularly  ig- 
norant of  the  ways  of  the  world  on  shore.  *  In- 
stead of  taking  the  joke,  he  looked  confused.  A 
deeper  tinge  of  color  reddened  his  dark  cheeks. 
"I  didn't  say  so," he  answered,  a  little  irritably. 

Sir  Patrick  lifted  two  of  his  white,  wrinkled 
old  fingers,  and  good  -  humoredly  patted  the 
young  sailor  on  the  cheek. 

"Yes  you  did,"  he  said.  "In  red  let- 
ters. " 

The  little  gold  lid  in  the  knob  of  the  ivory  cane 
flew  up,  and  the  old  gentleman  rewarded  him- 
self for  that  neat  retort  with  a  pinch  of  snuff.  At 
the  same  moment  Blanche  made  her  appearance 
on  the  scene. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth,"  she  said,  "I  shall  want 
you  directly.  Uncle,  it's  your  turn  to  play. " 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  cried  Sir  Patrick,  "  I  forgot 
the  game. "  He  looked  about  him,  and  saw  his 
mallet  and  ball  left  waiting  on  the  table.  ' '  Where 
are  the  modern  substitutes  for  conversation  ?  Oh, 
here  they  are ! "  He  bowled  the  ball  out  before 
him  on  to  the  lawn,  and  tucked  the  mallet,  as  if 
it  was  an  umbrella,  under  his  arm.  "  Who  was 
the  first  mistaken  person,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  briskly  hobbled  out,  "who  discovered 
that  human  life  was  a  serious  thing  ?  Here  am 
I,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave ;  and  the  most  seri- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


29 


ous  question  before  me  at  the  present  moment 
is,  Shall  I  get  through  the  Hoops  ?'' 

Arnold  and  Blanche  were  left  together. 

Among  the  personal  privileges  which  Nature 
has  accorded  to  women,  there  are  surely  none 
more  enviable  than  their  privilege  of  always  look- 
ing their  best  when  they  look  at  the  man  they 
love.  When  Blanche's  eyes  turned  on  Arnold, 
after  her  uncle  had  gone  out,  not  even  the  hide- 
ous fashionable  disfigurements  of  the  inflated 
"chignon"  and  the  tilted  hat  could  destroy  the 
triple  charm  of  youth,  beauty,  and  .tenderness 
beaming  in  her  face.  Arnold  looked  at  her — 
and  remembered,  as  he  had  never  remembered 
yet,  that  he  was  going  by  the  next  train,  and 
that  he  was  leaving  her  in  the  society  of  more 
than  one  admiring  man  of  his  own  age.  The 
experience  of  a  whole  fortnight  passed  under  the 
same  roof  with  her  had  proved  Blanche  to  be 
the  most  charming  girl  in  existence.  It  was 
possible  that  she  might  not  be  mortally  offended 
with  him  if  he  told  her  so.  He  determined  that 
he  would  tell  her  so  at  that  auspicious  moment. 

But  who  shall  presume  to  measure  the  abyss 
that  lies  between  the  Intention  and  the  Execu- 
tion ?  Arnold's  resolution  to  speak  was  as  firm- 
ly settled  as  a  resolution  could  be.  And  what 
came  of  it?  Alas  for  human  infirmity!  No- 
thing came  of  it  but  silence. 

"You  don't  look  quite  at  your  ease,  Mr. 
Brinkworth,"  said  Blanche.  "What  has  Sir 
Patrick  been  saying  to  you?  My  uncle  sharp- 
ens his  wit  on  every  body.  He  has  been  sharp- 
ening it  on  you  f 

Arnold  began  to  see  his  way.  At  an  immeas- 
urable distance — but  still  he  saw  it. 

"Sir  Patrick  is  a  terrible  old  man,"  he  an- 
swered. "Just  before  you  came  in  he  discov- 
ered one  of  my  secrets  by  only  looking  in  my 
face."  He  paused,  rallied  his  courage,  pushed 
on  at  all  hazards,  and  came  headlong  to  the 
point.  "  I  wonder, " he  asked,  bluntly,  "  wheth- 
er you  take  after  your  uncle  ?" 

Blanche  instantly  understood  him.  With  time 
at  her  disposal,  she  would  have  taken  him  light- 
ly in  hand,  and  led  him,  by  fine  gradations,  to 
the  object  in  view.  But  in  two  minutes  or  less 
it  would  be  Arnold's  turn  to  play.  "  He  is  going 
to  make  me  an  otter,"  thought  Blanche ;  "  and  he 
has  about  a  minute  to  do  it  in.  He  shall  do  it !" 

"  What!"  she  exclaimed,  "do  you  think  the 
gift  of  discover}-  runs  in  the  family?" 

Arnold  made  a  plunge. 

"  I  wish  it  did  !"  he  said. 

Blanche  looked  the  picture  of  astonishment. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  If  you  could  see  in  my  face  what  Sir  Patrick 
saw — " 

He  had  only  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  the 
thing  was  done.  But  the  tender  passion  per- 
versely delights  in  raising  obstacles  to  itself.  A 
sudden  timidity  seized  on  Arnold  exactly  at  the 
wrong  moment.  He  stopped  short,  in  the  most 
awkward  manner  possible. 

Blanche  heard  from  the  lawn  the  blow  of  the 
mallet  on  the  ball,  and  the  laughter  of  the  com- 
pany at  some  blunder  of  Sir  Patrick's.  The 
precious  seconds  wero  slipping  away.  She  could 
have  boxed  Arnold  on  both  ears  for  being  so  un- 
reasonably afraid  of  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  impatiently,  "if  I  did  look 
in  your  face,  what  should  I  see  ?" 


Arnold  made  another  plunge.     He  answered  : 

"  You  would  see  that  I  want  a  little  encour- 
agement." 

"From  me?" 

"  Yes— if  you  please." 

Blanche  looked  back  over  her  shoulder.  The 
summer-house  stood  on  an  eminence,  approached 
by  steps.  The  players  on  the  lawn  beneath  were 
audible,  but  not  visible.  Any  one  of  them  might 
appear,  unexpectedly,  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Blanche  listened.  There  was  no  sound  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps — there  was  a  general  hush, 
and  then  another  bang  of  the  mallet  on  the  ball, 
and  then  a  clapping  of  hands.  Sir  Patrick  was 
a  privileged  person.  He  had  been  allowed,  in 
all  probability,  to  try  again ;  and  he  was  suc- 
ceeding at  the  second"  effort.  This  implied  a  re- 
prieve of  some  seconds.  Blanche  looked  back 
agajn  at  Arnold. 

"Consider  yourself  encouraged,"  she  whis- 
pered ;  and  instantly  added,  with  the  ineradica- 
ble female  instinct  of  self-defense,  "within  lim- 
its!" 

Arnold  made  a  last  plunge — straight  to  the 
bottom,  this  time. 

"Consider  yourself  leved,"  he  burst  out, 
"without  any  limits  at  all." 

It  was  all  over — the  words  were  spoken — he 
had  got  her  by  the  hand.  Again  the  perversity 
of  the  tender  passion  showed  itself  more  strong- 
ly than  ever.  The  confession  which  Blanche 
had  been  longing  to  hear,  had  barely  escaped 
her  lover's  lips  before  Blanche  protested  against 
it!  She  struggled  to  release  her  hand,  bhe 
formally  appealed  to  Arnold  to  let  her  go. 

Arnold  only  held  her  the  tighter. 

"Do  try  to  like  me  a  little!"  he  pleaded. 
"I  am  so  fond  of  you!" 

Who  was  to  resist  such  wooing  as  this? — 
when  you  were  privately  fond  of  him  yourself, 
remember !  and  when  you  were  certain  to  be 
interrupted  in  another  moment !  Blanche  left 
off  struggling,  and  looked  up  at  her  young  sailor 
with  a  smile. 

"Did  you  learn  this  method  of  making  love 
in  the  merchant-sen-ice  ?"  she  inquired,  saucily. 

Arnold  persisted  in  contemplating  his  pros- 
pects from  the  serious  point  of  view. 

"I'll  go  back  to  the  merchant-service,"  he 
said,  "if  I  have  made  you  angry  with  me." 

Blanche  administered  another  dose  of  en- 
couragement. 

"Anger,  Mr.  Brinkworth,  is  one  of  the  bad 
passions,"  she  answered,  demurely.  "A  young 
lady  who  has  been  properly  brought  up  has  no 
bad  passions." 

There  was  a  sudden  cry  from  the  players  on 
the  lawn — a  cry  for  "  Mr.  Brinkworth. "  Blanche 
tried  to  push  him  out.  Arnold  was  immovable. 

"Say  something  to  encourage  me  before  I 
go, "  he  pleaded.  "  One  word  will  do.  Say,  Yes. " 

Blanche  shook  her  head.  Now  she  had  got 
him,  the  temptation  to  tease  him  was  irresistible. 

"Quite  impossible!"  she  rejoined.  "If  you 
want  any  more  encouragement,  you  must  speak 
to  my  uncle." 

"I'll  speak  to  him,"  returned  Arnold,  "be- 
fore I  leave  the  house." 

There  was  another  cry  for  "  Mr.  Brinkworth." 
Blanche  made  another  effort  to  push  him  out. 

"Go !"  she  said.  "And  mind  you  get  through 
the  hoop ! " 


30 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"ARNOLD  CAUGHT  HER  ROUND  THE  WAIST  AND  KISSED  HER. 


She  had  both  hands  on  his  shoulders — her 
face  was  close  to  his — she  was  simply  irresisti- 
ble. Arnold  caught  her  round  the  waist  and 
kissed  her.  Needless  to  tell  him  to  get  through 
the  hoop.  He  had  surely  got  through  it  al- 
ready !  Blanche  was  speechless.  Arnold's  last 
effort  in  the  art  of  courtship  had  taken  away  her 
breath.  Before  she  could  recover  herself  a 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps  became  plainly 
audible.  Arnold  gave  her  a  last  squeeze,  and 
ran  out. 

She  sank  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  closed  her 
eyes  in  a  flutter  of  delicious  confusion. 

The  footsteps  ascending  to  the  summerrhouse 
came  nearer.  Blanche  opened  her  eyes,  and 
saw  Anne  Silvester,  standing  alone,  looking  at 
her.  She  sprang  to*  her  feet,  and  threw  her 
arms  impulsively  round  Anne's  neck. 

"You  don't  know  what  has  happened,"  she 
whispered.  "Wish  me  joy,  darling.  He  has 
said  the  words.  He  is  mine  for  life ! " 

All  the  sisterly  love  and  sisterly  confidence  of 
many  years  was  expressed  in  that  embrace,  and 
in  the  tone  in  which  the  words  were  spoken. 
The  hearts  of  the  mothers,  in  the  past  time, 
could  hardly  have  been  closer  to  each  other — as 
it  seemed— than  the  hearts  of  the  daughters 
were  now.  And  yet,  if  Blanche  had  looked  up 
in  Anne's  face  at  that  moment,  she  must  have 
seen  that  Anne's  mind  was  far  away  from  her 
little  love-story. 

"You  know  who  it  is?"  she  went  on,  after 
waiting  for  a  reply. 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?" 

' '  Of  course !     Who  else  should  it  be  ?" 

' '  And  you  are  really  happy,  my  love  ?" 


" Happy ?"  repeated  Blanche.  "Mind!  this 
is  strictly  between  ourselves.  I  am  ready  to 
jump  out  of  my  skin  for  joy.  I  love  him !  I 
love  him !  I  love  him !"  she  cried,  with  a  child- 
ish pleasure  in  repeating  the  words.  They  were 
echoed  by  a  heavy  sigh.  Blanche  instantly  look- 
ed up  into  Anne's  face.  "What's  the  matter?" 
she  asked,  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice  and 
manner. 

"Nothing." 

Blanche's  observation  saw  too  plainly  to  be 
blinded  in  that  way. 

"There  is  something  the  matter,"  she  said. 
"Is  it  money?''  she  added,  after  a  moment's 
consideration.  "Bills  to  pay?  I  have  got 
plenty  of  money,  Anne.  I'll  lend  you  what  you 
like." 

"No,  no,  my  dear!" 

Blanche  drew  back,  a  little  hurt.  Anne  was 
keeping  her  at  a  distance  for  the  first  time  in 
Blanche's  experience  of  her. 

"I  tell  you  all  my  secrets,"  she  said.  "  Why 
are  you  keeping  a  secret  from  me  ?  Do  you  know 
that  you  have  been  looking  anxious  and  out  of 
spirits  for  some  time  past?  Perhaps  you  don't 
like  Mr.  Brinkworth?  No?  you  do  like  him? 
Is  it  my  marrying,  then  ?  I  believe  it  is !  You 
fancy  we  shall  be  parted,  you  goose?  As  if  I 
could  do  without  you !  Of  course,  when  I  am 
married  to  Arnold,  you  will  come  and  live  with 
us.  That's  quite  understood  between  us — isn't 
it?" 

Anne  drew  herself  suddenly,  almost  roughly, 
away  from  Blanche,  and  pointed  out  to  the  steps. 

"There  is  somebody  coming,"  she  said. 
"Look!'' 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


31 


The  person  coming  was  Arnold.  It  was 
Blanche's  turn  to  play,  and  he  had  volunteered 
to  fetch  her. 

Blanche's  attention — easily  enough  distracted 
on  other  occasions — remained  steadily  fixed  on 
Anne. 

"You  are  not  yourself,"  she  said,  "and  I 
must  know  the  reason  of  it.  I  will  wait  till  to- 
night ;  and  then  you  will  tell  me,  when  you  come 
into  my  room.  Don't  look  like  that !  You  shall 
tell  me.  And  tHere's  a  kiss  for  you  in  the  mean 
time!" 

She  joined  Arnold,  and  recovered  her  gayety 
the  moment  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Well  ?     Have  you  got  through  the  hoops  ?" 

"Never  mind  the  hoops.  I  have  broken  the 
ice  with  Sir  Patrick." 

"  What !  before  all  the  company !" 

"Of  course  not!  I  have  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  speak  to  him  here." 

They  went  laughing  down  the  steps,  and 
joined  the  game. 

Left  alone,  Anne  Silvester  walked  slowly  to 
the  inner  and  darker  part  of  the  summer-house. 
A  glass,  in  a  carved  wooden'  frame,  was  fixed 
against  one  of  the  side  walls.  She  stopped  and 
looked  into  it — looked,  shuddering,  at  the  re- 
flection of  herself. 

"Is  the  time  coming,"  she  said,  "when  even 
Blanche  will  see  what  I  am  in  my  face?" 

She  turned  aside  from  the  glass.  With  a 
sudden  cry  of  despair  she  flung  up  her  arms  and 
laid  them  heavily  against  the  wall,  and  rested 
her  head  on  them  with  her  back  to  the  light. 
At  the  same  moment  a  man's  figure  appeared — 
standing  dark  in  the  flood  of  sunshine  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  summer-house.  The  man  was 
Geoffrey  Delamayn. 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH. 

THE   TWO. 

HE  advanced  a  few  steps,  and.  stopped.  Ab- 
sorbed in  herself,  Anne  foiled  to  hear  him.  She 
never  moved. 

"I  have  come,  as  you  made  a  point  of  it," 
he  said,  sullenly.  "But,  mind  you,  it  isn't 
safe." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Anne  turned  to- 
ward him.  A  change  of  expression  appeared 
in  her  face,  as  she  slowly  advanced  from  thtf 
back  of  the  summer-house,  which  revealed  a 
likeness  to  her  mother,  not  perceivable  at  other 
times.  As  the  mother  had  looked,  in  by-gone 
clays,  -at  the  man  who  had  disowned  her,  so  the 
daughter  looked  at  Geoffrey  Delamayn — with  the 
same  terrible  composure,  and  the  same  terrible 
contempt. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked.  ' '  What  have  you  got  to 
say  to  me  ?" 

"  Mr.  Delamayn, "she  answered,  "you  are  one 
of  the  fortunate  people  of  this  world.  You  are  a 
nobleman's  son.  You  are  a  handsome  man.  You 
are  popular  at  your  college.  You  are  free  of  the 
best  houses  in  England.  Are  you  something  be- 
sides all  this?  Are  you  a  coward  and  a  scoun- 
drel as  well  ?" 

He  started — opened  his  lips  to  speak — checked 
himself — and  made  an  uneasy  attempt  to  laugh 
it  off".  "Come !"  he  said,  "keep  your  temper." 


The  suppressed  passion  in  her  began  to  force 
its  way  to  the  surface. 

"Keep  my  temper?"  she  repeated.  " Do  you 
of  all  men  expect  me  to  control  myself?  What 
a  memory  yours  must  be !  Have  you  forgotten 
the  time  when  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  you 
were  fond  of  me  ?  and  mad  enough  to  believe 
you  could  keep  a  promise  ?" 

He  persisted  in  trying  to  laugh  it  off.  "  Mad 
is  a  strongish  word  to  use,  Miss  Silvester!" 

"Mad  is  the  right  word !  I  look  back  at  my 
own  infatuation — and  I  can't  account  for  it ;  I 
can't  understand  myself.  What  was  there  in 
you, "  she  asked,  with  an  outbreak  of  contempt- 
uous surprise,  "to  attract  such  a  woman  as  I 
am?" 

His  inexhaustible  good-nature  was  proof  even 
against  this.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  said,  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

She  turned  away  from  him.  The  frank  bru- 
tality of  the  answer  had  not  offended  her.  It 
forced  her,  cruelly  forced  her,  to  remember  that 
she  had  nobody  but  herself  to  blame  for  the  po- 
sition in  which  she  stood  at  that  moment.  She 
was  unwilling  to  let  him  see  how  the  remem- 
brance hurt  her — that  was  all.  A  sad,  sad  sto- 
ry ;  but  it  must  be  told.  In  her  mother's  time, 
she  had  been  the  sweetest,  the  most  lovable  of 
children.  In  later  days,  under  the  care  of  her 
mother's  friend,  her  girlhood  had  passed  so 
harmlessly  and  so  happily — it  seemed  as  if  the 
sleeping  passions  might  sleep  forever !  h'he  had 
lived  on  to  the  prime  of  her  womanhood — and 
then,  when  the  treasure  of  her  life  was  at  its 
richest,  in  one  fatal  moment  she  had  flung  it 
away  on  the  man  in  whose  presence  she  now 
stood. 

Was  she  without  excuse  ?  No :  not  utterly 
without  excuse. 

She  had  seen  him  under  other  aspects  than  the 
aspect  which  he  presented  now.  She  had  seen 
him,  the  hero  of  the  river-race,  the  first  and  fore- 
most man  in  a  trial  of  strength  and  skill  which 
had  roused  the  enthusiasm  of  all  England.  She 
had  seen  him,  the  central  object  of  the  interest 
of  a  nation  ;  the  idol  of  the  popular  worship  and 
the  popular  applause.  His  were  the  arms  whose 
muscle  was  celebrated  in  the  newspapers.  He 
was  first  among  the  heroes  hailed  by  ten  thou- 
sand roaring  throats  as  the  pride  and  flower  of 
England.  A  woman,  in  an  atmosphere  of  red-hot 
enthusiasm,  witnesses  the  apotheosis  of  Physical 
Strength.  Is  it  reasonable — is  it  just — to  expect 
her  to  ask  herself,  in  cold  blood,  What  (morally 
and  intellectually)  is  all  this  worth  ? — and  that, 
when  the  man  who  is  the  object  of  the  apotheo- 
sis, notices  her,  is  presented  to  her,  finds  her  to 
his  taste,  and  singles  her  out  from  the  rest  ?  No. 
While  humanity  is  humanity,  the  woman  is  not 
utterly  without  excuse. 

Has  she  escaped,  without  suffering  for  it  ? 

Look  at  her  as  she  stands  there,  tortured  by 
the  knowledge  of  her  own  secret — the  hideous 
secret  which  she  is  hiding  from  the  innocent 
girl,  whom  she  loves  with  a  sister's  love.  Look 
at  her,  bowed  down  under  a  humiliation  which 
is  unutterable  in  words.  She  has  seen  him  be- 
low the  surface — now,  when  it  is  too  late.  She 
rates  him  at  his  true  value — now,  when  her  rep- 
utation is  at  his  mercy.  Ask  her  the  question  : 
What  was  there  to  love  in  a  man  who  can  speak 


32 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


THE    MAN    WAS    GEOFFREY    DELAMAYN. 


to  yon  as  that  man  has  spoken,  who  can  treat 
you  as  that  man  is  treating  you  now  ?  you  so 
clever,  so  cultivated,  so  refined — what,  in  Heav- 
en's name,  could  you  see  in  him  ?  Ask  her  that, 
and  she  will  have  no  answer  to  give.  She  will  not 
even  remind  you  that  he  was  once  your  model  of 


manly  beanty,  too — that  you  waved  your  handker- 
chief till  you  could  wave  it  no  longer,  when  he 
took  his  seat,  with  the  others,  in  the  boat — that 
your  heart  was  like  to  jump  out  of  your  bosom, 
on  that  later  occasion  when  he  leaped  the  last 
hurdle  at  the  foot-race,  and  won  it  by  a  head. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


33 


In  the  bitterness  of  her  remorse,  she  will  not 
even  seek  for  that  excuse  for  herself.  Is  there 
no  atoning  suffering  to  be  seen  here  ?  I)o  your 
sympathies  shrink  from  such  a  character  as  this  ? 
Follow  her,  good  friends  of  virtue,  on  the  pil- 
grimage that  leads,  by  steep  and  thorny  ways, 
to  the  purer  atmosphere  and  the  nobler  life. 
Your  fellow-creature,  who  has  sinned  and  has 
repented — you  have  the  authority  of  the  Divine 
Teacher  for  it  —  is  your  fellow-creature,  puri- 
fied and  ennobled.  A  joy  among  the  angels 
of  heaven — oh,  my  brothers  and  sisters  of  the 
earth,  have  I  not  laid  my  hand  on  a  fit  com- 
panion ,for  You  ? 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  the  summer- 
house.  The  cheerful  tumult  of  the  lawn-party 
was  pleasantly  audible  from  the  distance.  Out- 
side, the  hum  of  voices,  the  laughter  of  girls,  the 
thump  of  the  croquet-mallet  against  the  ball. 
Inside,  nothing  but  a  woman  forcing  back  the 
bitter  tears  of  sorrow  and  shame — and  a  man 
who  was  tired  of  her. 

She  roused  herself.  She  was  her  mother's 
daughter ;  and  she  had  a  spark  of  her  mother's 
spirit.  Her  life  depended  on  the  issue  of  that 
interview.  It  was  useless — without  father  or 
brother  to  take  her  part — to  lose  the  last  chance 
of  appealing  to  him.  She  dashed  away  the  tears 
— time  enough  to  cry,  is  time  easily  found  in  a 
woman's  existence — she  dashed  away  the  tears, 
and  spoke  to  him  again,  more  gently  than  she 
had  spoken  yet. 

"  You  have  been  three  weeks,  Geoffrey,  at 
your  brother  Julius's  place,  not  ten  miles  from 
here ;  and  you  have  never  once  ridden  over  to 
see  me.  You  would  not  have  come  to-day,  if  I 
had  not  written  to  you  to  insist  on  it.  Is  that 
the  treatment  I  have  deserved  ?" 

She  paused.     There  was  no  answer. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  she  asked,  advancing, 
and  speaking  in  louder  tones. 

He  was  still  silent.  It  was  not  in  human  en- 
durance to  bear  his  contempt.  The  warning  of 
a  coming  outbreak  began  to  show  itself  in  her 
face.  He  met  it,  beforehand,  with  an  impene- 
trable front.  Feeling  nervous  about  the  inter- 
view, while  he  was  waiting  in  the  rose-garden — 
now  that  he  stood  committed  to  it,  he  was  in  full 
possession  of  himself.  He  was  composed  enough 
to  remember  that  he  had  not  put  his  pipe  in  its 
case — composed  enough  to  set  that  little  matter 
right  before  other  matters  went  any  farther.  He 
took  the  case  out  of  one  pocket,  and  the  pipe  out 
of  another. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  quietly.      "  I  hear  you." 

She  struck  the  pipe  out  of  his  hand  at  a  blow. 
If  she  had  had  the  strength  she  would  have  struck 
him  down  with  it  on  the  floor  of  the  summer- 
house. 

"How  dare  you  use  me  in  this  way?"  she 
burst  out,  vehemently.  "Your  conduct  is  infa- 
mous. Defend  it  if  you  can !" 

He  made  no  attempt  to  defend  it.  He  look- 
ed, with  an  expression  of  genuine  anxiety,  at  the 
fallen  pipe.  It  was  beautifully  colored — it  had 
cost  him  ten  shillings.  "  I'll  pick  up  my  pipe 
first,"  he  said.  His  face  brightened  pleasantly 
— he  looked  handsomer  than  ever — as  he  ex- 
amined the  precious  object,  and  put  it  back  in 
the  case.  "  All  right,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She 
hasn't  broken  it. "  His  attitude,  as  he  looked  at 


her  again,  was  the  perfection  of  easy  grace — the 
grace  that  attends  on  cultivated  strength  in  a 
state  of  repose.  "I  put  it  to  your  own  com- 
mon-sense, "  he  said,  in  the  most  reasonable  man- 
ner, "what's  the  good  of  bullying  me?  You 
don't  want  them  to  hear  you,  out  on  the  lawn 
there  —  do  you?  You  women  are  all  alike. 
There's  no  beating  a  little  prudence  into  your 
heads,  try  how  one  may. " 

There  he  waited,  expecting  her  to  speak.  She 
waited,  on  her  side,  and  forced  him  to  go  on. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "there's  no  need  to 
quarrel,  you  know.  I  don't  want  to  break  my 
promise ;  but  what  can  I  do  ?  I'm  not  the  eld- 
est son.  I'm  dependent  on  my  father  for  every 
farthing  I  have ;  and  I'm  on  bad  terms  with  him 
already.  Can't  you  see  it  yourself?  You're  a 
lady,  and  all  that,  I  know.  But  you're  only  a 
governess.  It's  your  interest  as  well  as  mine  to 
wait  till  my  father  has  provided  for  me.  Here 
it  is  in  a  nut-shell :  if  I  marry  you  now,  I'm  a 
ruined  man." 

The  answer  came,  this  time. 
i  "  You  villain  !  if  you  don't  marry  me,  I  am  a 
ruined  woman ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

' '  You  know  what  I  mean.  Don't  look  at  me 
in  that  way. " 

"  How  do  you  expect  me  to  look  at  a  woman 
who  calls  me  a  villain  to  my  face  ?" 

She  suddenly  changed  her  tone.  The  savage 
element  in  humanity — let  the  modern  optimists 
who  doubt  its  existence  look  at  any  uncultivated 
man  (no  matter  how  muscular),  woman  (no  mat- 
ter how  beautiful),  or  child  (no  matter  how 
young) — began  to  show  itself  furtively  in  his 
eyes,  to  utter  itself  furtively  in  his  voice.  Was 
he  to  blame  for  the  manner  in  which  he  looked 
at  her  and  spoke  to  her?  Not  he!  What  had 
there  been  in  the  training  of  his  life  (at  school 
or  at  college)  to  soften  and  subdue  the  savage 
element  in  him  ?  About  as  much  as  there  had 
been  in  the  training  of  his  ancestors  (without 
the  school  or  the  college)  five  hundred  years  since. 

It  was  plain  that  one  of  them  must  give  way. 
The  woman  had  the  most  at  stake — and  the  wo- 
man set  the  example  of  submission. 

"Don't  be  hard  on  me,"  she  pleaded.  "I 
don't  mean  to  be  hard  on  you.  My  temper  gets 
the  better  of  me.  You  know  my  temper.  I  am 
sorry  I  forgot  myself.  Geoffrey,  my  whole  fu- 
ture is  in  your  hands.  Will  you  do  me  jus- 
tice ?" ' 

She  came  nearer,  and  laid  her  hand  persua- 
sively on  his  arm. 

' '  Haven't  you  a  word  to  say  to  me  ?  No  an- 
swer? Not  even  a  look?"  She  waited  a  mo- 
ment more.  A  marked  change  came  over  her. 
She  turned  slowly  to  leave  the  summer-house. 
"I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn.  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer." 

He  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  tone  in  her 
voice  that  he  had  never  heard  before.  There 
was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  in 
them  before.  Suddenly  and  fiercely  he  reached 
out  his  hand,  and  stopped  her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

She  answered,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face, 
"  Where  many  a  miserable  woman  has  gone  be- 
fore me.  Out  of  the  world." 

He  drew  her  nearer  to  him,  and  eyed  her  close- 
ly. Even  his  intelligence  discovered  that  he  had 


34 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


brought  her  to  bay,  and  that  she  really  meant 
it! 

"  Do  you  mean  you  will  destroy  yourself?"  he 
said. 

"Yes.     I  mean  I  will  destroy  myself." 
He  dropped  her  arm.     "  By  Jupiter,  she  does 
mean  it!" 

With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  pushed  one 
of  the  chairs  in  the  summer-house  to  her  with 
his  foot,  and  signed  to  her  to  take  it.  "Sit 
down! "he  said,  roughly.  She  had  frightened 
him — and  fear  comes  seldom  to  men  of  his  type. 
They  feel  it,  when  it  does  come,  with  an  angry 
distrust ;  they  grow  loud  and  brutal,  in  instinct- 
ive protest  against  it.  "Sit  down!"  he  repeat- 
ed. She  obeyed  him.  "  Haven't  you  got  a  word 
to  say  to  me  ?"  he  asked,  with  an  oath.  No ! 
there  she  sat,  immovable,  reckless  how  it  ended 
— as  only  women  can  be,  when  women's  minds 
are  made  up.  He  took  a  turn  in  the  summer- 
house  and  came  back,  and  struck  his  hand  an- 
grily on  the  Tail  of  her  chair.  "What  do  you 
want  ?" 

"  You  know  what  I  want."  o 

He  took  another  turn.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  give  way  on  his  side,  or  run  the  risk  of 
something  happening  which  might  cause  an  awk- 
ward scandal,  and  come  to  his  father's  ears. 

' '  Look  here,  Anne, "  he  began,  abruptly.     ' '  I 
have  got  something  to  propose." 
She  looked  up  at  him. 
' '  What  do  you  say  to  a  private  marriage  ?" 
Without  asking  a  single  question,  without  mak- 
ing objections,  she  answered  him,  speaking  as 
bluntly  as  he  had  spoken  himself : 
"I  consent  to  a  private  marriage." 
He  began  to  temporize  directly. 
"  I  own  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  managed — " 
She  stopped  him  there. 
"I  do!" 

"What!"  he  cried  out,  suspiciously.     "You 
have  thought  of  it  yourself,  have  you?" 
"  Yes." 

' '  And  planned  for  it  ?" 
"  And  planned  for  it!" 
' '  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  before  ?" 
She  answered  haughtily ;   insisting  on  the  re- 
spect which  is  due  to  women — the  respect  which 
was  doubly  due  from  him,  in  her  position. 

"  Because  you  owed  it  to  me,  Sir,  to  speak 
first." 

"Very  well.     I've  spoken  first.      Will  you 
wait  a  little  ?" 
"Not  a  day!" 
The  tone  was  positive.     There  was  no  mistak- 
ing it.     Her  mind  was  made  up. 
.  "  Where's  the  hurry  ?" 

"Have  you  eyes?"  she  asked,  vehemently. 
' '  Have  you  ears  ?  Do  you  see  how  Lady  Lundie 
looks  at  me  ?  Do  you  hear  how  Lady  Lundie 
speaks  to  me  ?  I  am  suspected  by  that  woman. 
My  shameful  dismissal  from  this  house  may  be 
a  question  of  a  few  hours."  Her  head  sunk  on 
her  bosom ;  she  wrung  her  clasped  hands  as  they 
rested  on  her  lap.  "And,  oh,  Blanche!"  she 
moaned  to  herself,  the  tears  gathering  again,  and 
falling,  this  time,  unchecked.  "Blanche,  who 
looks  up  to  me !  Blanche,  who  loves  me ! 
Blanche,  who  told  me,  in  this  very  place,  that  I 
was  to  live  with  her  when  she  was  married!" 
She  started  up  from  the  chair ;  the  tears  dried 
suddenly;  the  hard  despair  settled  again,  wan 


and  white,  on  her  face.  "Let  me  go!  What 
is  death,  compared  to  such  a  life  as  is  waiting 
for  me  ?"  She  looked  him  over,  in  one  disdain- 
ful glance  from  head  to  foot ;  her  voice  rose  to 
its  loudest  and  firmest  tones.  "  Why,  even  you 
would  have  the  courage  to  die  if  you  were  in  my 
place ! " 

Geoffrey  glanced  round  toward  the  lawn. 

"  Hush !"  he  said.     "They  will  hear  you !" 

"  Let  them  hear  me!  When  /  am  past  hear- 
ing them,  what  does  it  matter  ?" 

He  put  her  back  by  main  force  on  the  chair. 
In  another  moment  they  must  have  heard  her, 
through  all  the  noise  and  laughter  of  the  game. 

"  Say  what  you  want,"  he  resumed,  "  and  I'll 
do  it.  Only  be  reasonable.  I  cant  marry  you 
to-day." 

' '  You  can ! " 

"What  nonsense  you  talk!  The  house  and 
grounds  are  swarming  with  companv.  It  can't 
be!" 

"It  can !  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  ever 
since  we  came  to  this  house.  I  have  got  some- 
thing to  propose  to  you.  Will  you  hear  it,  or 
not?" 

"Speak  lower!" 

"  Will  you  hear  it,  or  not  ?" 

"There's  somebody  coming!" 

"Will  you  hear  it,  or  not?" 

"  The  devil  take  your  obstinacy !     Yes !" 

The  answer  had  been  wrung  from  him.  Still, 
it  was  the  answer  she  wanted — it  opened  the 
door  to  hope.  The  instant  he  had  consented 
to  hear  her  her  mind  awakened  to  the  serious 
necessity  of  averting  discovery  by  any  third  per- 
son who  might  stray  idly  into  the  summer-house. 
She  held  up  her  hand  for  silence,  and  listened  to 
what  was  going  forward  on  the  lawn. 

The  dull  thump  of  the  croquet-mallet  against 
the  ball  was  no  longer  to  be  heard.  The  game 
had  stopped. 

In  a  moment  more  she  heard  her  own  name 
called.  An  interval  of  another  instant  passed, 
and  a  familiar  voice  said,  ' '  I  know  where  she  is. 
I'll  fetch  her." 

She  turned  to  Geoffrey,  and  pointed  to  the 
back  of  the  summer-house. 

"It's  my  turn  to  play,"  she  said.  "And 
Blanche  is  coming  here  to  look  for  me.  Wait 
there,  and  I'll  stop  her  on  the  steps. " 

She  went  out  at  once.  It  was  a  critical  mo- 
ment. Discovery,  which  meant  moral-ruin  to 
the  woman,  meant  money -ruin  to  the  man. 
Geoffrey  had  not  exaggerated  his  position  with 
his  father.  Lord  Holchester  had  twice  paid  his 
debts,  and  had  declined  to  see  him  since.  One 
more  outrage  on  his  father's  rigid  sense  of  pro- 
priety, and  he  would  be  left  out  of  the  will  as 
well  as  kept  out  of  the  house.  He  looked  for  a 
means  of  retreat,  in  case  there  was  no  escaping 
unperceived  by  the  front  entrance.  A  door — 
intended  for  the  use  of  servants,  when  picnics 
i  and  gipsy  tea-parties  were  given  in  the  summer- 
house — had  been  made  in  the  back  wall.  It 
opened  outward,  and  it  was  locked.  With  his 
strength  it  was  easy  to  remove  that  obstacle. 
He  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door.  At  the  mo- 
i  ment  when  he  burst  it  open  he  felt  a  hand  on 
his  arm.  Anne  was  behind  him,  alone. 

"You  may  want  it  before  long,"  she  said,  ob- 
serving the  open  door,  without  expressing  any 
surprise.  "You  don't  want  it  now.  Another 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


35 


person  will  play  for  me — I  have  told  Blanche  I 
am  not  well.  Sit  down.  I  have  secured  a  re- 
spite of  five  minutes,  and  I  must  make  the  most 
of  it.  In  that  time,  or  less,  Lady  Lundie's  sus- 
picions will  bring  her  here — to  see  how  I  am. 
For  the  present,  shut  the  door." 

She  seated  herself,  and  pointed  to  a  second 
chair,  lie  took  it — with  his  eye  on  the  closed 
door. 

"Come  to  the  point!"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"What  is  it?" 

"You  can  marry  me  privately  to-day,"  she 
answered.  "Listen — and  I  will  tell  you  how!" 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH. 

THE   PLAN. 

SHE  took  his  hand,  and  began  with  all  the  art 
of  persuasion  that  she  possessed. 

"  One  question,  Geoffrey,  before  I  say  what  I 
want  to  say.  Lady  Lundie  has  invited  you  to 
stay  at  Windygates.  Do  you  accept  her  invi- 
tation? or  do  you  go  back  to  your  brother's  in 
the  evening  ?" 

"I  can't  go  back  in  the  evening — they've  put 
a  visitor  into  my  room.  I'm  obliged  to  stay  here. 
My  brother  has  done  it  on  purpose.  Julius  helps 
me  when  I'm  hard  up — and  bullies  me  afterward. 
He  has  sent  me  here,  on  duty  for  the  family. 
Somebody  must  be  civil  to  Lady  Lundie — and 
I'm  the  sacrifice." 

She  took  him  up  at  his  last  word.  ' '  Don't 
make  the  sacrifice,"  she  said.  "Apologize  to 
Lady  Lundie,  and  say  you  are  obliged  to  go 
back." 

"Why?" 

"Because  we  must  both  leave  this  place  to- 
day. " 

There  was  a  double  objection  to  that.  If  he 
left  Lady  Lundie's,  he  would  fail  to  establish  a 
future  pecuniary  claim  on  his  brother's  indul- 
gence. And  if  he  left  with  Anne,  the  eyes  of 
the  world  would  see  them,  and  the  whispers  of 
the  world  might  come  to  his  father's  ears. 

"If  we  go  away  together,"  he  said,  "good- 
by  to  my  prospects,  and  yours  too." 

"I  don't  mean  that  w» shall  leave  together," 
she  explained.  ' '  We  will  leave  separately — and 
I  will  go  first." 

"There  will  be  a  hue  and  cry  after  you, 
when  you  are  missed." 

"There  will  be  a  dance  when  the  croquet  is 
over.  I  don't  dance — and  I  shall  not  be  missed. 
There  will  be  time,  and  opportunity,  to  get  to  my 
own  room.  I  shall  leave  a  letter  there  for  Lady 
Lundie,  and  a  letter" — her  voice  trembled  for  a 
moment — "and  a  letter  for  Blanche.  Don't  in- 
terrupt me !  I  have  thought  of  this,  as  I  have 
thought  of  every  thing  else.  The  confession  I 
shall  make  will  be  the  truth  in  a  few  hours,  if 
it's  not  the  truth  now.  My  letters  will  say  I  am 
privately  married,  and  called  away  unexpectedly 
to  join  my  husband.  There  will  be  a  scandal  in 
the  house,  I  know.  But  there  will  be  no  excuse 
for  sending  after  me,  when  I  am  under  my  hus- 
band's protection.  So  far  as  you  are  personally 
concerned  there  are  no  discoveries  to  fear — and 
nothing  which  it  is  not  perfectly  safe  and  perfect- 
ly easy  to  do.  Wait  here  an  hour  after  I  have 
gone  to  save  appearances ;  and  then  follow  me." 


' '  Follow  you  ?' '  interposed  Geoffrey.  ' '  Where  ?" 

She  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  him,  and  whis- 
pered the  next  words  in  her  ear. 

"To  a  lonely  little  mountain  inn — four  miles 
from  this." 

"  An  inn!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  An  inn  is  a  public  place. " 

A  movement  of  natural  impatience  escaped 
her — but  she  controlled  herself,  and  went  on  as 
quietly  as  before : 

' '  The  place  I  mean  is  the  loneliest  place  in 
the  neighborhood.  You  have  no  prying  eyes  to 
dread  there.  I  have  picked  it  out  expressly  for 
that  reason.  It's  away  from  the  railway ;  it's 
away  from  the  high-road :  it's  kept  by  a  decent, 
respectable  Scotchwoman — ' 

"  Decent,  respectable  Scotchwomen  who  keep 
inns, "interposed  Geoffrey,  "don't  cotton  to  young 
ladies  who  are  traveling  alone.  The  landlady 
won't  receive  you. " 

It  was  a  well-aimed  objection — but  it  missed 
the  mark.  A  woman  bent  on  her  marriage  is  a 
woman  who  can  meet  the  objections  of  the  whole 
world,  single-handed,  and  refute  them  all. 

"I  have  provided  for  every  thing,"  she  said : 
"and  I  have  provided  for  that.  I  shall  tell  the 
landlady  I  am  on  my  wedding-trip.  I  shall  say 
my  husband  is  sight-seeing,  on  foot,  among  the 
mountains  in  the  neighborhood — " 

"  She  is  sure  to  believe  that !"  said  Geoffrey. 

"She  is  sure  to  disbelieve  it,  if  you  like.  Let 
her !  You  have  only  to  appear,  and  to  ask  for 
your  wife — and  there  is  my  story  proved  to  be 
true !  She  may  be  the  most  suspicious  woman 
living,  as  long  as  I  am  alone  with  her.  The 
moment  you  join  me,  yon  set  her  suspicions  at 
rest.  Leave  me  to  do  my  part.  My  part  is  the 
hard  one.  Will  you  do  yours  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  say  No :  she  had  fairly 
cut  the  ground  from  under  his  feet.  He  shifted 
his  ground.  Any  thing  rather  than  say  Yes ! 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  we  are  to  be  mar- 
ried?" he  asked.  "All  I  can  say  is — /don't." 

"You  do!"  she  retorted.  "You  know  that 
we  are  in  Scotland.  You  know  that  there  are 
neither  forms,  ceremonies,  nor  delays  in  rnai-- 
riage,  here.  The  plan  I  have  proposed  to  you 
secures  my  being  received  at  the  inn,  and  makes 
it  easy  and  natural  for  you  to  join  me  there  aft- 
erward. The  rest  is  in  our  own  hands.  A  man 
and  a  woman  who  wish  to  be  married  (in  Scot- 
land) have  only  to  secure  the  necessary  witnesses 
and  the  thing  is  done.  If  the  landlady  chooses 
to  resent  the  deception  practiced  on  her,  after 
that,  the  landlady  may  do  as  she  pleases.  We 
shall  have  gained  our  object  in  spite  of  her — and, 
what  is  more,  we  shall  have  gained  it  without 
risk  to  you. " 

"  Don't  lay  it  all  on  my  shoulders,"  Geoffrey 
rejoined.  "You  women  go  headlong  at  L'\vry 
thing.  Say  we  are  married.  We  must  separate 
afterward — or  how  are  we  to  keep  it  a  secret  ?" 

"  Certainly.  You  will  go  back,  of  course,  to 
your  brother's  house,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  you?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  London." 

"  What  are  you  to  do  in  London  ?" 

"  Haven't  I  already  told  you  that  I  have 
thought  of  every  thing  ?  When  I  get  to  London 
I  shall  apply  to  some  of  my  mother's  old  friends 


36 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


— friends  of  hers  in  the  time  when  she  was  a 
musician.  Every  body  tells  me  I  have  a  voice — 
if  I  had  only  cultivated  it.  I  will  cultivate  it ! 
I  can  live,  and  live  respectably,  as  a  concert 
singer.  I  have  saved  money  enough  to  support 
me,  while  I  am  learning — and  my  mother's  friends 
will  help  me,  for  her  sake." 

So,  in  the  new  life  that  she  was  marking  out, 
was  she  now  unconsciously  reflecting  in  herself 
the  life  of  her  mother  before  her.  Here  was  the 
mother's  career  as  a  public  singer,  chosen  (in 
spite  of  all  efforts  to  prevent  it)  by  the  child! 
Here  (though  with  other  motives,  and  under  other 
circumstances)  was  the  mother's  irregular  mar- 
riage in  Ireland,  on  the  point  of  being  followed 
by  the  daughter's  irregular  marriage  in  Scotland ! 
And  here,  stranger  still,  was  the  man  who  was 
answerable  for*  it — the  son  of  the  man  who  had 
found  the  flaw  in  the  Irish  marriage,  and  had 
shown  the  way  by  which  her  mother  was  thrown 
on  the  world!  "My  Anne  is  my  second  self. 
She  is  not  called  by  her  father's  name;  she  is 
called  by  mine.  She  is  Anne  Silvester  as  I  was. 
Will  she  end  like  Me?" — The  answer  to  those 
words — the  last  words  that  had  trembled  on  the 
dying  mother's  lips — was  coming  fast.  Through 
the  chances  and  changes  of  many  years,  the  fu- 
ture was  pressing  near — and  Anne  Silvester  stood 
on  the  brink  of  it. 

"  Well  ?"  she  resumed.  "Are  you  at  the  end 
of  your  objections  ?  Can  you  give  me  a  plain 
answer  at  last  ?" 

No !  He  had  another  objection  ready  as  the 
words  passed  her  lips. 

"  Suppose  the  witnesses  at  the  inn  happen  to 
know  me  ?"  he  said.  "  Suppose  it  comes  to  my 
father's  ears  in  that  way  ?" 

"Suppose  you  drive  me  to  my  death?"  she 
retorted,  starting  to  her  feet.  ' '  Your  father 
shall  know  the  truth,  in  that  case — I  swear  it !" 

He  rose,  on  his  side,  and  drew  back  from  her. 
She  followed  him  up.  There  was  a  clapping  of 
hands,  at  the  same  moment,  on  the  lawn.  Some* 
body  had  evidently  made  a  brilliant  stroke  which 
promised  to  decide  the  game.  There  was  no  se- 
curity now  that  Blanche  might  not  return  again. 
There  was  every  prospect,  the  game  being  over, 
that  Lady  Lundie  would  be  free.  Anne  brought 
the  interview  to  its  crisis,  without  wasting  a  mo- 
ment more. 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,"  she  said.  "You 
have  bargained  for  a  private  marriage,  and  I 
have  consented.  Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  ready 
to  marry  me  on  your  own  terms  ?" 

"  Give  me  a  minute  to  think  !" 

"  Not  an  instant.  •  Once  for  all,  is  it  Yes,  or 
No?" 

He  couldn't  say  "Yes,"  even  then.  But  he 
said  what  was  equivalent  to  it.  He  asked,  sav- 
agely, "  Where  is  the  inn?" 

She  put  her  arm  in  his,  and  whispered,  rapidly, 

"Pass  the  road  on  the  right  that  leads  to  the 
railway.  Follow  the  path  over  the  moor,  and 
the  sheep-track  up  the  hill.  The  first  house  you 
come  to  after  that  is  the  inn.  You  understand !" 

He  nodded  his  head,  with  a  sullen  frown,  and 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  pocket  again. 

"Let  it  alone  this  time,"  he  said,  meeting  her 
eye.  "  My  mind's  upset.  When  a  man's  mind's 
upset,  a  man  must  smoke.  What's  the  name  of 
the  place  ?" 

"  Craig  Fernie." 


"  Who  am  I  to  ask  for  at  the  door?" 

' '  For  your  wife. " 

"Suppose  they  want  you  to  give  your  name 
when  you  get  there  ?" 

"If  I  must  give  a  name,  I  shall  call  myself 
Mrs.,  instead  of  Miss,  Silvester.  But  I  shall  do 
my  best  to  avoid  giving  any  name.  And  you 
will  do  your  best  to  avoid  making  a  mistake,  by 
only  asking  for  me  as  your  wife.  Is  there  any 
thing  else  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Be  quick  about  it !     What  is  it  ?" 

"  How  am  I  to  know  you  have  got  away  from 
here?" 

"  If  you  don't  hear  from  me  in  half  an  hour 
from  the  time  when  I  have  left  you,  you  may  be 
sure  I  have  got  away.  Hush !" 

Two  voices,  in  conversation,  were  audible  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps — Lady  Lundie's  voice 
and  Sir  Patrick's.  Anne  pointed  to  the  door  in 
the  back  wall  of  the  summer-house.  She  had 
just  pulled  it  to  again,  after  Geoffrey  had  passed 
through  it,  when  Lady  Lundie  and  Sir  Patrick 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH. 

THE   SUITOR. 

LADY  LUNDIE  pointed  significantly  to  the 
door,  and  addressed  herself  to  Sir  Patrick's  pri- 
vate ear. 

"  Observe !"  she  said.  "  Miss  Silvester  has  just 
got  rid  of  somebody. " 

Sir  Patrick  deliberately  looked  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  (in  the  politest  possible  manner) 
observed — nothing. 

Lady  Lundie  advanced  into  the  summer- 
house.  Suspicious  hatred  of  the  governess  was 
written  legibly  in  every  line  of  her  face.  Sus- 
picious distrust  of  the  governess's  illness  spoke 
plainly  in  every  tone  of  her  voice. 

"  May  I  inquire,  Miss  Silvester,  if  your  suf- 
ferings are  relieved  ?" 

"  I  am  no  better,  Lady  Lundie." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

"  I  said  I  was  no  better." 

"You  appear  to  be  5ble  to  stand  up.  When 
/  am  ill,  I  am  not  so  fortunate.  I  am  obliged 
to  lie  down." 

"I  will  follow  your  example,  Lady  Lundie. 
If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  excuse  me,  I  will 
leave  you,  and  lie  down  in  my  own  room." 

She  could  say  no  more.  The  interview  with 
Geoffrey  had  worn  her  out ;  there  was  no  spirit 
left  in  her  to  resist  the  petty  malice  of  the  wo- 
man, after  bearing,  as  she  had  borne  it,  the  bru- 
tish indifference  of  the  man.  In  another  moment 
the  hysterical  suffering  which  she  was  keeping 
down  would  have  forced  its  way  outward  in  tears. 
Without  waiting  to  know  whether  she  was  ex- 
cused or  not,  without  stopping  to  hear  a  word 
more,  she  left  the  summer-house. 

Lady  Lundie's  magnificent  black  eyes  opened 
to  their  utmost  width,  and  blazed  with  their 
most  dazzling  brightness.  She  appealed  to  Sir 
Patrick,  poised  easily  on  his  iv^ry  cane,  and  look- 
ing out  at  the  lawn-party,  the  picture  of  venera- 
ble innocence. 

"  After  what  I  have  already  told  you,  Sir  Pat- 
rick, of  Miss  Silvester's  conduct,  may  I  ask 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


37 


whether  you  consider  that  proceeding  at  all  ex-  , 
traordinary  ?'' 

The  old  gentleman  touched  the  spring  in  the 
knob  of  his  cane,  and  answered,  in  the  coxntly 
manner  of  the  old  school : 

"I  consider  no  proceeding  extraordinary,  Lady 
Lundie,  which  emanates  from  your  enchanting 
sex." 

He  bowed,  and  took  his  pinch.     With  a  little 
jaunty  flourish  of  the  hand,  he  dusted  the  stray  j 
grains   of  snuff  oft'  his  finger  and  thumb,  and 
looked  back  again  at  the  lawn-party,  and  became  : 
more  absorbed  in  the  diversions  of  his  young  j 
friends  than  ever. 

Lady  Lundie  stood  her  ground,  plainly  de- 
termined to  force  a  serious  expression  of  opinion 
from  her  brother-in-law.    Before  she  could  speak  ' 
again,  Arnold  and  Blanche  appeared  together  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps.     "And  when  does  the 
dancing  begin  ?"  inquired  Sir  Patrick,  hobbling 
out  to  meet  them,  and  looking  as  if  he  felt  the  •, 
deepest  interest  in  a  speedy  settlement  of  the 
question. 

"The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  ask  mamma," 
returned  Blanche.     "  Is  she  in  there  with  Anne  ?  \ 
Is  Anne  better?" 

Lady  Lundie  forthwith  appeared,  and  took 
the  answer  to  that  inquiry  on  herself. 

"  Miss  Silvester  has  retired  to  her  room.  Miss 
Silvester  persists  in  being  ill.  Have  you  noticed, 
Sir  Patrick,  that  these  half-bred  sort  of  people 
are  almost  invariably  rude  when  they  are  ill?" 

Blanche's  bright  face  flushed  up.  "  If  you 
think  Anne  a  half-bred  person,  Lady  Lundie, 
you  stand  alone  in  your  opinion.  My  uncle 
doesn't  agree  with  you,  I'm  sure." 

Sir  Patrick's  interest  in  the  first  quadrille  be- 
came almost  painful  to  see.  "  L)o  tell  me,  my 
dear,  when  is  the  dancing  going  to  begin  ?" 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  interposed  Lady 
Lundie;  "before  Blanche  picks  another  quarrel 
with  me  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Silvester." 

Blanche  looked  at  her  uncle.  "Begin!  be- 
gin !  Don't  lose  time !"  cried  the  ardent  Sir  Pat- 
rick, pointing  toward  the  house  with  his  cane. 
"  Certainly,  uncle !  Any  thing  that  you  wish !" 
With  that  parting  shot  at  her  step -mother, 
Blanc-he  withdrew.  Arnold,  who  had  thus  far 
waited  in  silence  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  looked 
appealingly  at  Sir  Patrick.  The  train  which  was 
to  take  him  to  his  newly  inherited  property  would 
start  in  less  than  an  hour ;  and  he  had  not  pre- 
sented himself  to  Blanche's  guardian  in  the  char- 
acter of  Blanche's  suitor  yet !  Sir  Patrick's  in- 
difference to  all  domestic  claims  on  him — claims 
of  persons  who  loved,  and  claims  of  persons  who 
hated,  it  didn't  matter  which — remained  perfect- 
ly unassailable.  There  he  stood,  poised  on  his 
cane,  humming  an  old  Scotch  air.  And  there 
was  Lady  Lundie,  resolute  not  to  leave  him  till 
he  had  seen  the  governess  with  her  eyes  and 
judged  the  governess  with  her  mind.  She  re- 
turned to  the  charge — in  spite  of  Sir  Patrick, 
humming  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  of  Arnold, 
waiting  at  the  bottom.  (Her  enemies  said,  ' '  No 
wonder  poor  Sir  Thomas  died  in  a  few  months 
after  his  marriage  !"  And,  oh  dear  m,e,  our  en- 
emies are  sometimes  right !) 

"I  must  once  more  remind  you,  Sir  Patrick, 
that  I  have  serious  reason  to  doubt  whether  Miss 
Silvester  is  a  fit  companion  for  Blanche.  My 
governess  has  something  on  her  mind.  She  has 


fits  of  crying  in  private.  She  is  up  and  walking 
about  her  room  when  she  ought  to  be  asleep. 
She  posts  her  own  letters — and,  she  has  lately, 
been  excessively  insolent  to  Me.  There  is  some- 
thing wrong.  I  must  take  some  steps  in  the 
matter — and  it  is  only  proper  that  I  should  do  so 
with  your  sanction,  as  head  of  the  family." 

"  Consider  me  as  abdicating  my  position,  Lady 
Lundie,  in  your  favor. " 

"  Sir  Patrick,  I  beg  you  to  observe  that  I  am 
speaking  seriously,  and  that  I  expect  a  serious 
reply." 

"  My  good  lady,  ask  me  for  any  thing  else  and 
it  is  at  your  service.  I  have  not  made  '  a  seri- 
ous reply'  since  I  gave  up  practice  at  the  Scottish 
Bar.  At  my  age,"  added  Sir  Patrick,  cunning- 
ly drifting  into  generalities,  "nothing  is  serious 
— except  Indigestion.  I  say,  with  the  philoso- 
pher, '  Life  is  a  comedy  to  those  who  think,  and 
a  tragedy  to  those  who  feel.'"  He  took  his  sis- 
ter-in-law's hand,  and  kissed  it.  "  Dear  Lady 
Lundie,  why  feel  ?" 

Lady  Lundie,  who  had  never  "  felt"  in  her 
life,  appeared  perversely  determined  to  feel,  on 
this  occasion.  She  was  offended  —  and  she 
showed  it  plainly. 

"  When  you  are  next  called  on,  Sir  Patrick, 
to  judge  of  Miss  Silvester's  conduct, '  she  said, 
"unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  you  will  find 
yourself  compelled  to  consider  it  as  something 
beyond  a  joke. "  With  those  words,  she  walked 
out  of  the  summer-house — and  so  forwarded  Ar- 
nold's interests  by  leaving  Blanche's  guardian 
alone  at  last.  . 

It  was  an  excellent  opportunity.  The  guests 
were  safe  in  the  house — there  was  no  interruption 
to  be  feared.  Arnold  showed  himself.  Sir  Pat- 
rick (perfectly  undisturbed  by  Lady  Lundie's 
parting  speech)  sat  down  in  the  summer  house, 
without  noticing  his  young  friend,  and  asked 
himself  a  question  founded  on  profound  observa- 
tion of  the  female  sex.  "Were  there  ever  two 
women  yet  with  a  quarrel  between  them, "  thought 
the  old  gentleman,  "who  didn't  want  to  drag  a 
man  into  it  ?  Let  them  drag  me  in,  if  they  can !" 

Arnold  advanced  a  step,  and  modestly  an- 
nounced himself.  "  I  hope  I  am  not  in  the  way, 
Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"In  the  way?  of  course  not!  Bless  my  soul, 
how  serious  the  boy  looks !  Are  you  going  to 
appeal  to  me  as  the  head  of  the  family  next  ?" 

It  was  exactly  what  Arnold  was  about  to  do. 
But  it  was  plain  that  if  he  admitted  it  just  then 
Sir  Patrick  (for  some  unintelligible  reason)  would 
decline  to  listen  to  him.  He  answered  cautious- 
ly, "  I  asked  leave  to  consult  you  in  private,  Sir ; 
and  you  kindly  said  you  would  give  me  the  op- 
portunity before  I  left  Windygates  ?" 

' '  Ay !  ay !  to  be  sure.  1  remember.  We 
were  both  engaged  in  the  serious  business  of  cro- 
quet at  the  time — and  it  was  doubtful  which  of 
us  did  that  business  most  clumsily.  Well,  here 
is  the  opportunity ;  and  here  am  I,  with  all  my 
worldly  experience,  at  your  service.  I  have  only 
one  caution  to  give  you.  Don't  appeal  to  me  as 
'the  head  of  the  family.'  .vMy  resignation  is  in 
Lady  Lundie's  hands." 

He  was,  as  usual,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest. 
The  wry  twist  of  humor  showed  itself  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  lips.  Arnold  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
approach  Sir  Patrick  on  the  subject  of  his  niece 
without  reminding  him  of  his  domestic  responsi- 


38 


MAN  AND  \7IFE. 


bilities  on  the  one  hand,  and  without  setting  him- 
self-up  as  a  target  for  the  shafts  of  Sir  Patrick's 
wit  on  the  other.  In  this  difficulty,  he  commit- 
ted a  mistake  at  the  outset.  He  hesitated. 

"Don't  hurry  yourself,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"  Collect  your  ideas.  .lean  wait!  I  can  wait!" 

Arnold  collected  his  ideas — and  committed  a 
second  mistake.  He  determined  on  feeling  his 
way  cautiously  at  first.  Under  the  circumstances 
(and  with  such  a  man  as  he  had  now  to  deal 
with),  it  was  perhaps  the  rashest  resolution  at 
which  he  could  possibly  have  arrived — it  was  the 
mouse  attempting  to  outmanoeuvre  the  cat. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  Sir,  in  offering  me 
the  benefit  of  your  experience,"  he  began.  "I 
want  a  word  of  advice." 

''  Suppose  you  take  it  sitting  ?"  suggested  Sir 
Patrick.  "Get  a  chair."  His  sharp  eyes  fol- 
lowed Arnold  with  an  expression  of  malicious 
enjoyment.  "Wants  my  advice?"  he  thought. 
"The  young  humbug  wants  nothing  of  the  sort 
— he  wants  my  niece/' 

Arnold  sat  down  under  Sir  Patrick's  eye,  with 
a  well-founded  suspicion  that  he  was  destined  to 
suffer,  before  he  got  up  again,  under  Sir  Patrick's 
tongue. 

"  I  am  only  a  young  man,"  he  went  on,  mov- 
ing uneasily  in  his  chair;  "and  I  am  beginning 
a  new  life — " 

"Any  thing  wrong  with  the  chair?"  asked  Sir 
Patrick.  ' ;  Begin  your  new  life  comfortably,  and 
get  another.' 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  the  chair,  Sir. 
Would  you — " 

' '  Would  I  keep  the  chair,  in  that  case  ?  Cer- 
tainly. " 

"  I  mean,  would  you  advise  me — " 

"  My  good  fellow,  I'm  waiting  to  advise  you. 
(Tm  sure  there's  something  wrong  with  that 
chair.  Why  be  obstinate  about  it  ?  Why  not 
get  another?)" 

"  Please  don't  notice  the  chair,  Sir  Patrick — 
you  put  me  out.  I  want — in  short — perhaps  it's 
a  curious  question — " 

"I  can't  say  till  I  have  heard  it,"  remarked 
Sir  Patrick.  "However,  we  will  admit  it,  for 
form's  sake,  if  you  like.  Say  it's  a  curious  ques- 
tion. Or  let  us  express  it  more  strongly,  if  that 
will  help  you.  Say  it's  the  most  extraordinary 
question  that  ever  was  put,  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world,  from  one  human  being  to  another." 

"It's  this!"  Arnold  burst  out,  desperately. 
"  I  want  to  be  married !" 

"That  isn't  a  question," objected  Sir  Patrick. 
"  It's  an  assertion.  You  say,  I  want  to  be  mar- 
ried. And  I  say,  Just  so !  And  there's  an  end 
of  it," 

Arnold's  head  began  to  whirl.  "  Would  you 
advise  me  to  get  married,  Sir?"  he  said,  piteous- 
ly.  "That's  what  I  meant." 

"  Oh !  That's  the  object  of  the  present  inter- 
view, is  it?  Would  I  advise  you  to  marry, 
eh?" 

(Having  caught  the  mouse  by  this  time,  the 
cat  lifted  his  paw  and  let  the  luckless  little  creat-  ; 
ure  breathe  again.  Sir  Patrick's  manner  sud- 
denly freed  itself  from  any  slight  signs  of  impa- 
tience which  it  might  have  hitherto  shown,  and 
became  as  pleasantly  easy  and  confidential  as  a 
manner  could  be..  He  touched  the  knob  of  his 
cane,  and  helped  himself,  with  infinite  zest  and 
enjoyment,  to  a  pinch  of  snuff.) 


"Would  I  advise  you  to  marry?"  repeated 
Sir  Patrick.  "Two  courses  are  open  to  us,  Mr. 
Arnold,  in  treating  that  question.  We  may  put 
it  briefly,  or  we  may  put  it  at  great  length.  I 
am  for  putting  it  briefly.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

' '  What  you  say,  Sir  Patrick. " 

"Very  good.  May  I  begin  by  making  an  in- 
quiry relating  to  your  past  life  ?" 

"Certainly!" 

"Very  good  again.  When  you  were  in  the 
merchant  service,  did  you  ever  have  any  experi- 
ence in  buying  provisions  ashore  ?" 

Arnold  stared.  If  any  relation  existed  be- 
tween that  question  and  the  subject  in  hand  it 
was  an  impenetrable  relation  to  him.  He  an- 
swered, in  unconcealed  bewilderment, 

"Plenty  of  experience,  Sir." 

"I'm  coming  to  the  point,"  pursued  Sir  Pat- 
rick. ' '  Don't  be  astonished.  I'm  coining  to 
the  point.  What  did  you  think  of  your  moist 
sugar  when  you  bought  it  at  the  grocer's  ?'' 

"  Think?''  repeated  Arnold.  "  Why,  I  thought 
it  was  moist  sugar,  to  be  sure!" 

"Marry,  by  all  means!"  cried  Sir  Patrick. 
"  You  are  one  of  the  few  men  who  can  try  that 
experiment  with  a  fair  chance  of  success." 

The  suddenness  of  the  answer  fairly  took  away 
Arnold's  breath.  There  was  something  perfect- 
ly electric  in  the  brevity  of  his  venerable  friend. 
He  stared  harder  than  ever. 

' '  Don't  you  understand  me  ?"  asked  Sir  Pat- 
rick. 

' '  I  don't  understand  what  the  moist  sugar  has 
got  to  do  with  it,  Sir." 

"  You  don't  see  that  ?" 

"Not  a  bit!" 

"Then  I'll  show  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  cross- 
ing his  legs,  and  setting  in  comfortably  for  a  good 
talk.  "You  go  to  the  tea-shop,  and  get  your  moist 
sugar.  You  take  it  on  the  understanding  that  it 
is  moist  sugar.  But  it  isn't  any  thing  of  the 
sort.  It's  a  compound  of  adulterations  made  up 
to  look  like  sugar.  You  shut  your  eyes  to  that 
awkward  fact,  and  swallow  your  adulterated 
mess  in  various  articles  of  food;  and  you  and 
your  sugar  get  on  together  in  that  way  as  well  as 
you  can.  Do  you  follow  me,  so  far  ?" 

Yes.   Arnold  (quite  in  the  dark)  followed,  so  far. 

"Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "You 
go  to  the  marriage-shopj  and  get  a  wife.  You 
take  her  on  the  understanding — let  us  say — that 
she  has  lovely  yellow  hair,  that  she  has  an  ex- 
quisite complexion,  that  her  figure  is  the  per- 
fection of  plumpness,  and  that  she  is  just  tall 
enough  to  carry  the  plumpness  off.  You  bring 
her  home,  and  you  discover  that  it's  the  old  story 
of  the  sugar  over  again.  Your  wife  is  an  adul- 
terated article.  Her  lovely  yellow  hair  is — dye. 
Her  exquisite  skin  is  —  pearl  powder.  Her 
plumpness  is — padding.  And  three  inches  of 
her  height  are — in  the  boot-maker's  heels.  Shut 
your  eyes,  and  swallow  your  adulterated  wife  as 
you  swallow  your  adulterated  sugar — and,  I  tell 
you  again,  you  are  one  of  the  few  men  who  can 
try  the  marriage  experiment  with  a  fair  chance 
of  success. " 

With  that  he  uncrossed  his  legs  again,  and 
looked  hard  at  Arnold.  Arnold  read  the  lesson, 
at  last,  in  the  right  way.  He  gave  up  the  hope- 
less attempt  to  circumvent  Sir  Patrick,  anil — 
come  what  might  of  it — dashed  at  a  direct  allu- 
sion to  Sir  Patrick's  niece. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


HE    TOUCHED   THE    KNOB   OF    HIS    CANE,    AND    HELPED    HIMSELF,    WITH    INFINITE    ZEST 
AND   ENJOYMENT,   TO   A   PINCH   OF   SNUFF." 


"  That  may  be  all  very  true,  Sir,  of  some  young 
ladies/'  he  said.  "There  is  one  I  know  of,  who 
is  nearly  related  to  you,  and  who  doesn't  deserve 
what  you  have  said  of  the  rest  of  them." 

This  was  coming  to  the  point.  Sir  Patrick 
showed  his  approval  of  Arnold's  frankness  by 
coming  to  the  point  himself,  as  readily  as  his 
own  whimsical  humor  would  let  him. 

"Is  this  female  phenomenon  my  niece?"  he 
inquired. 

"Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

' '  May  I  ask  how  you  know  that  my  niece  is 
not  an  adulterated  article,  like  the  rest  of  them  ?" 

Arnold's  indignation  loosened  the  last  re- 
straints that  tied  Arnold's  tongue.  He  exploded 
in  the  three  words  which  mean  three  volumes  in 
every  circulating  library  in  the  kingdom. 

"I  love  her." 

Sir  Patrick  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  stretch- 
ed out  his  legs  luxuriously. 

"That's  the  most  convincing  answer  I  ever 
heard  in  my  life,"  he  said. 

"I'm  in  earnest!"  cried  Arnold,  reckless  by 
this  time  of  every  consideration  but  one.  "Put 
me  to  the  test,  Sir !  put  me  to  the  test ! " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  The  test  is  easily  put."  He 
looked  at  Arnold,  with  the  irrepressible  humor 
twinkling  merrily  in  his  eyes,  and  twitching 
sharply  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  "My  niece 
has  a  beautiful  complexion.  Do  you  believe  in 
her  complexion  ?" 

"There's  a  beautiful  sky  above  our  heads," 
returned  Arnold.  "I  believe  in  the  sky." 

"  Do  vou  ?"  retorted  Sir  Patrick.     "  You»were 


evidently  never  caught  in  a  shower.  My  niece 
has  an  immense  quantity  of  hair.  Are  you  con- 
vinced that  it  all  grows  on  her  head  ?" 

' '  I  defy  any  other  woman's  head  to  produce 
the  like  of  it!" 

"My  dear  Arnold,  you  greatly  underrate  the 
existing  resources  of  the  trade  in  hair !  Look 
into  the  shop-windows.  When  you  next  go  to 
London  pray  look  into  the  shop-windows.  In 
the  mean  time,  what  do  you  think  of  my  niece's 
figure  ?" 

"Oh,  come!  there  can't  be  any  doubt  about 
that !  Any  man,  with  eyes  in  his  head,  can  see 
it's  the  loveliest  figure  in  the  world. " 

Sir  Patrick  laughed  softly,  and  crossed  his 
legs  again. 

' '  My  good  fellow,  of  course  it  is !  The  love- 
liest figure  in  the  world  is  the  commonest  thing 
in  the  world.  At  a  rough  guess,  there  are  forty 
ladies  at  this  lawn-party.  Every  one  of  them 
possesses  a  beautiful  figure.  It  varies  in  price  ;  • 
and  when  it's  particularly  seductive,  you  may 
swear  it  comes  from  Paris.  Why,  how  you 
stare  !  When  I  asked  you  what  you  thought  of 
my  niece's  figure,  I  meant — how  much  of  it  comes 
from  Nature,  and  how  much  of  it  comes  from 
the  Shop  ?  I  don't  know,  mind !  Do  you  ?" 

' '  I'll  take  my  oath  to  every  inch  of  it ! " 

"Shop?" 

"Nature!" 

Sir  Patrick  rose  to  his  feet;  his  satirical  hu- 
mor was  silenced  at  last. 

"  If  ever  I  have  a  son,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"  that  son  shall  go  to  sea!"  He  took  Arnold's 


40 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


arm.  as  a.  preliminary  to  putting  an  end  to  Ar- 
nold's suspense.  "  If  I  can  be  serious  about  any 
thing,"  he  resumed,  "it's  time  to  be  serious  with 
you.  I  am  convinced  of  the  sincerity  of  your 
attachment.  All  I  know  of  you  is  in  your  favor, 
and  your  birth  and  position  are  beyond  dispute. 
If  you  have  Blanche's  consent,  you  have  mine." 
Arnold  attempted  to  express  his  gratitude.  Sir 
Patrick,  declining  to  hear  him,  went  on.  "And 
remember  this,  in  the  future.  When  you  next 
want  any  thing  that  I  can  give  you,  ask  for  it 
plainly.  Don't  attempt  to  mystify  me  on  the 
next  occasion,  and  I  will  promise,  on  my  side, 
not  to  mystify  you.  There,  that's  understood. 
Now  about  this  journey  of  yours  to  see  your  es- 
tate. Property  has  its  duties,  Master  Arnold, 
as  well  as  its  rights.  The  time  is  fast  com- 
ing when  its  rights  will  be  disputed,  if  its  duties 
are  not  performed.  I  have  got  a  new  interest 
in  you,  and  I  mean  to  see  that  you  do  your  duty. 
It's  settled  you  are  to  leave  Windygates  to-day. 
Is  it  arranged  how  you  are  to  go  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Patrick.  Lady  Lundie  has  kindly 
ordered  the  gig  to  take  me  to  the  station,  in  time 
for  the  next  train." 

' '  When  are  you  to  be  ready  ?" 

Arnold  looked  at  his  watch.  -"In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

"Very  good.  Mind  you  are  ready.  Stop  a 
minute !  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  speak  to 
Blanche  when  I  have  done  with  you.  You  don't 
appear  to  me  to  be  sufficiently  anxious  about 
seeing  your  own  property." 

"  I  am  not  very  anxious  to  leave  Blanche,  Sir 
— that's  the  truth  of  it." 

"Never  mind  Blanche.  Blanche  is  not  busi- 
ness. They  both  begin  with  a  B — and  that's 
the  only  connection  between  them.  I  hear  you 
have  got  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  this  part  of 
Scotland.  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  in 
it?" 

"I  have  arranged  (as  I  have  already  told  you, 
Sir)  to  return  to  Windygates  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

"  What !  Here  is  a  man  with  a  palace  wait- 
ing to  receive  him — and  he  is  only  gtring  to  stop 
one  clear  day  in  it !" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stop  in  it  at  all,  Sir  Pat- 
rick— I  am  going  to  stay  with  the  steward.  I'm 
only  wanted  to  be  present  to-morrow  at  a  dinner 
to  my  tenants — and,  when  that's  over,  there's  no- 
thing in  the  world  to  prevent  my  coming  back 
here.  The  steward  himself  told  me  so  in  his 
last  letter." 

"Oh,  if  the  steward  told  you  so,  of  course 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said !"  • 

"  Don't  object  to  my  coming  back !  pray  don't, 
Sir  Patrick !  I'll  promise  to  live  in  my  new  house, 
when  I  have  got  Blanche  to  live  in  it  with  me.  If 
you  won't  mind,  I'll  go  and  tell  her  at  once  that 
it  all  belongs  to  her  as  well  as  to  me." 

"Gently!  gently!  you  talk  as  if  you  were 
married  to  her  already !" 

"  It's  as  good  as  done,  Sir !  Where's  the  dif- 
ficulty in  the  way  now  ?" 

As  he  asked  the  question  the  shadow  of  some 
third  person,  advancing  from  the  side  of  the 
summer-house,  was  thrown  forward  on  the  open 
sunlit  space  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  In  a  mo- 
ment more  the  shadow  was  followed  by  the  sub- 
stance— in  the  shape  of  a  groom  in  his  riding 
livery.  The  man  w~as  plainly  a  stranger  to  the 


place.    He  started,  and  touched  his  hat,  when  he 
saw  the  two  gentlemen  in  the  summer-house. 

"  What  do  you  want?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir;  I  was 'sent  by  my 
master — '' 
.     "Who  is  your  master?" 

"The  Honorable  Mr.  Delamayn,  Sir." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 
asked  Arnold. 

"No,  Sir.  Mr.  Geoffrey's  brother — Mr.  Ju- 
lius. I  have  ridden  over  from  the  house,  Sir, 
with  a  message  from  my  master  to  Mr.  Geof- 
frey." 

"  Can't  you  find  him  ?" 

"  They  told  me  I  should  find  him  hereabouts, 
Sir.  But  I'm  a  stranger,  and  don't  rightly  know 
where  to  look."  He  stopped,  and  took  a  card 
out  of  his"  pocket.  "  My  master  said  it  was 
very  important  I  should  deliver  this  immedi- 
ately. Would  you  be  pleased  to  tell  me,  gen- 
tlemen, if  you  happen  to  know  where  Mr.  Geof- 
frey is  ?" 

Arnold  turned  to  Sir  Patrick.  "I  haven't 
seen  him.  Have  you  ?" 

"I  have  smelt  him,"  answered  Sir  Patrick, 
"ever  since  I  have  been  in  the  summer-house. 
There  is  a  detestable  taint  of  tobacco  in  the  air — 
suggestive  (disagreeably  suggestive  to  my  mind) 
of  your  friend,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Arnold  laughed,  and  stepped  outside  the  sum- 
mer-house. 

"If  you  are  right,  Sir  Patrick,  we  will  find 
him  at  once. "  He  looked  around,  and  shouted, 
"Geoffrey!" 

A  voice  from  the  rose-garden  shouted  back, 
"Hullo!" 

"You're  wanted.     Come  here !" 

Geoffrey  appeared,  sauntering  doggedly,  witli 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets. 

"Who  wants  me?" 

"A  groom — from  your  brother." 

That  answer  appeared  to  electrify  the  loung- 
ing and  lazy  athlete.  Geoffrey  hurried,  with 
eager  steps,  to  the  summer-house.  He  ad- 
dressed the  groom  before  thfc  man  had  time  to 
speak.  With  horror  and  dismay  in  his  face,  he 
exclaimed : 

"  By  Jupiter!  Ratcatcher  has  relapsed !" 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  looked  at  each  other 
in  blank  amazement. 

"The  best  horse  in  my  brother's  stables!" 
cried  Geoffrey,  explaining}  and  appealing  to 
them,  in  a  breath.  "I  left  written  directions 
with  the  coachman ;  I  measured  out  his  physic 
for  three  days;  I  bled  him,"  said  Geoffrey,  in  a 
voice  broken  by  emotion — "I  bled  him  myself, 
last  night." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir — "  began  the  groom. 

' '  What's  the  use  of  begging  my  pardon  ? 
You're  a  pack  of  infernal  fools !  Where's  your 
horse  ?  I'll  ride  back,  and  break  every  bone  in 
the  coachman's  skin  !  Where's  your  horse  ?" 

' '  If  you  please,  Sir,  it  isn't  Ratcatcher.  Rat- 
catcher's all  right. " 

"  Ratcatcher's  all  right  ?  Then  what  the  devil 
is  it  ?" 

"  It's  a  message,  Sir." 

"About  what?" 

"About  my  lord." 

"Oh  !  About  my  father?"  He  took  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  passed  it  over  his  forehead, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


41 


with  a  deep  gasp  of  relief.  "I  thought  it  was 
Ratcatcher,"  he  said,  looking  at  Arnold,  with  a 
smile.  lie  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth,  and  re- 
kindled the  dying  ashes  of  the  tobacco.  ' '  Well  ?" 
he  went  on,  when  the  pipe  was  in  working  order, 
and  his  voice  was  composed  again.  "  What's  up 
with  my  father  ?" 

"A  telegram  from  London,  Sir.  Bad  news 
of  my  lord." 

The  man  produced  his  master's  card. 

Geoffrey  read  on  it  (written  in  his  brother's 
handwriting)  these  words : 

"I  have  only  a  moment  to  scribble  a  line  on 
my  card.  Our  father  is  dangerously  ill — his 
lawyer  has  been  sent  for.  Come  with  me  'to 
London  by  the  first  train.  Meet  at  the  junc- 
tion." 

Without  a  word  to  any  one  of  the  three  per- 
sons present,  all  silently  looking  at  him,  Geoffrey 
consulted  his  watch.  Anne  had  told  him  to  wait 
half  an  hour,  and  to  assume  that  she  had  gone 
if  he  failed  to  hear  from  her  in  that  time.  The 
interval  had  passed — and  no  communication  of 
any  sort  had  reached  him.  The  flight  from  the 
house  had  been  safely  accomplished.  Anne  Sil- 
vester was,  at  that  moment,  on  her  way  to  the 
mountain  inn. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH. 

THE    DEBT. 

ARNOLD  was  the  first  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  Is  your  father  seriously  ill  ?"  he  asked. 

Geoffrey  answered  by  handing  him  the  card. 

Sir  Patrick,  who  had  stood  apart  (while  the 
question  of  Ratcatcher's  relapse  was  under  dis- 
cussion) sardonically  studying  the  manners  and 
customs  of  modern  English  youth,  now  came  for- 
ward, and  took  his  part  in  the  proceedings.  Lady 
Lundie  herself  must  have  acknowledged  that  he 
spoke  and  acted  as  became  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily, on  this  occasion. 

"Am  I  right  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Delamayn's 
father  is  dangerously  ill?"  he  asked,  addressing 
himself  to  Arnold. 

"Dangerously  ill,  in  London,"  Arnold  an- 
swered. ' '  Geoffrey  must  leave  Windygates  with 
me.  The  train  I  ani  traveling  by  meets  the  train 
his  brother  is  traveling  by,  at  the  junction.  I 
shall  leave  him  at  the  second  station  from  here. " 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  that  Lady  Lundie  was 
going  to  send  you  to  the  railway  in  a  gig  ?" 

"Yes." 

"If  the  servant  drives,  there  will  be  three  of 
you — and  there  will  be  no  room." 

"We  had  better  ask  for  some  other  vehicle," 
suggested  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  looked  at  his  watch.  There  was 
no  time  to  change  the  carriage.  He  turned  to 
Geoffrey.  "Can  you  drive,  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

Still  impenetrably  silent,  Geoffrey  replied  by  a 
nod  of  the  head. 

Without  noticing  the  unceremonious  manner 
in  which  he  had  been  answered,  Sir  Patrick  went 
on: 

"  In  that  case,  you  can  leave  the  gig  in  charge 
of  the  station-master.  I'll  tell  the  servant  that 
he  will  not  be  wanted  to  drive." 

"Let  me  save  you  the  trouble,  Sir  Patrick," 
said  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  declined,  by  a  gesture.  He  turned 
C 


again,  with  undiminished  courtesy,  to  Geoffrey. 
"  It  is  one  of  the  duties  of  hospitality,  Mr.  De- 
lamayn, to  hasten  your  departure,  under  these 
sad  circumstances.  Lady  Lundie  is  engaged 
with  her  guests.  I  will  see  myself  that  there  is 
no  unnecessary  delay  in  sending  you  to  the  sta- 
tion." He  bowed — and  left  the  summer-house. 

Arnold  said  a  word  of  sympathy  to  his  friend, 
when  they  were  alone. 

"I  am  sorry  for  this,  Geoffrey.  I  hope  and 
trust  you  will  get  to  London  in  time." 

He  stopped.  There  was  something  in  Geof- 
frey's face — a  strange  mixture  of  doubt  and  be- 
wilderment, of  annoyance  and  hesitation — which 
was  not  to  be  accounted  for  as  the  natural  result 
of  the  news  that  he  had  received.  His  color 
shifted  and  changed ;  he  picked  fretfully  at  his 
finger-nails ;  he  looked  at  Arnold  as  if  he  was 
going  to  speak — and  then  looked  away  again,  in 
silence. 

"Is  there  something  amiss,  Geoffrey,  besides 
this  bad  news  about  your  father  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  I'm  in  the  devil's  own  mess,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

"Can  I  do  any  thing  to  help  you ?" 

Instead  of  making  a  direct  reply,  Geoffrey 
lifted  his  mighty  hand,  and  gave  Arnold  a  friend- 
ly slap  on  the  shoulder  which  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot.  Arnold  steadied  himself,  and 
waited — wondering  what  was  coming  next. 

"I  say,  old  fellow!"  said  Geoffrey. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  remember  when  the  boat  turned 
keel  upward  in  Lisbon  Harbor  ?" 

Arnold  started.  If  he  could  have  called  to 
rnind  his  first  interview  in  the  summer-house 
with  his  father's  old  friend,  he  might  have  re- 
membered Sir  Patrick's  prediction  that  he  would 
sooner  or  later  pay,  with  interest,  the  ddbt  he 
owed  to  the  man  who  had  saved  his  life.  As  it 
was.  his  memory  reverted  at  a  bound  to  the  time 
of  the  boat-accident.  In  the  ardor  of  his  grati- 
tude and  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  he  almost 
resented  his  friend's  question  as  a  reproach  which 
he  had  not  deserved. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  ever  forget,"  he  cried, 
warmly,  ' '  that  you  swam  ashore  with  me  and 
saved  my  life  ?" 

Geoffrey  ventured  a  step  nearer  to  the  object 
that  he  had  in  view. 

"One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  he  said, 
"don't  it?" 

Arnold  took  his  hand.  "Only  tell  me!"  he 
eagerly  rejoined — "  only  tell  me  what  I  can  do !" 

' '  You  are  going  to-day  to  see  your  new  place, 
ain't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  put  off  going  till  to-morrow?" 

"  If  it's  any  thing  serious — of  course  I  can !" 

Geoffrey  looked  round  at  the  entrance  to  the 
summer-house,  to  make  sure  that  they  were 
alone. 

"You  know  the  governess  here,  don't  you?" 
he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  into  a  little  difficulty  with 
Miss  Silvester.  And  there  isn't  a  living  soul  I 
can  ask  to  help  me  but  you. " 

"You  know  I  will  help  you.     What  is  it?" 

"  It  isn't  so  easy  to  say.  Never  mind — you're 
no  saint  either,  are  you  ?  You'll  keep  it  a  secret, 
of  course  ?  Look  here !  I've  acted  like  an  in- 


42 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


fernal  fool.  I've  gone  and  got  the  girl  into  a 
scrape — " 

Arnold  drew  back,  suddenly  understanding 
him. 

"  Good  heavens,  Geoffrey !  You  don't  mean — " 

"I  do !  Wait  a  bit — that's  not  the  worst  of 
it.  She  has  left  the  house. " 

"Left  the  house?" 

' '  Left,  for  good  and  all.  She  can't  come  back 
again." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  she's  written  to  her  missus.  Wo- 
men (hang  'em ! )  never  do  these  things  by  halves. 
She's  left  a  letter  to  say  she's  privately  married, 
and  gone  off  to  her  husband.  Her  husband  is — 
Me.  Not  that  I'm  married  to  her  yet,  you  un- 
derstand. I  have  only  promised  to  marry  her. 
She  has  gone  on  first  (on  the  sly)  to  a  place  four 
miles  from  this.  And  we  settled  I  was  to  follow, 
and  marry  her  privately  this  afternoon.  That's 
out  of  the  question  now.  While  she's  expecting 
me  at  the  inn  I  shall  be  bowling  along  to  Lon- 
don. Somebody  must  tell  her  what  has  hap- 
pened— or  she'll  play  the  devil,  and  the  whole 
business  will  burst  up.  I  can't  trust  any  of  the 
people  here.  I'm  done  for,  old  chap,  unless  you 
help  me." 

Arnold  lifted  his  hands  in  dismay.  "It's  the 
most  dreadful  situation,  Geoffrey,  I  ever  heard 
of  in  my  life!" 

Geoffrey  thoroughly  agreed  with  him. 
"Enough  to  knock  a  man  over," he  said,  "isn't 
it?  I'd  give  something  for  a  drink  of  beer." 
He  produced  his  everlasting  pipe,  from  sheer 
force  of  habit.  "  Got  a  match?"  he  asked. 

Arnold's  mind  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
the  question. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  think  I'm  making  light  of 
your*father's  illness,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "But 
it  seems  to  me — I  must  say  it — it  seems  to  me 
that  the  poor  girl  has  the  first  claim  on  you." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  in  surly  amazement. 

"The  first  claim  on  me?  Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  risk  being  cut  out  of  my  father's  will? 
Not  for  the  best  woman  that  ever  put  on  a  petti- 
coat!" 

Arnold's  admiration  of  his  friend  was  the  sol- 
idly-founded admiration  of  many  years  ;  admira- 
tion for- a  man  who  could  row,  box,  wrestle, 
jump — above  all,  who  could  swim — as  few  other 
men  could  perform  those  exercises  in  contempo- 
rary England.  But  that  answer  shook  his  faith. 
Only  for  the  moment — unhappily  for  Arnold,  only 
for  the  moment. 

"  You  know  best,"  he  returned,  a  little  coldly. 
"What  can  I  do?" 

Geoffrey  took  his  arm — roughly,  as  he  took 
every  thing ;  but  in  a  companionable  and  confi- 
dential way. 

"  Go,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  tell  her  what 
has  happened.  We'll  start  from  here  as  if  we 
were  both  going  to  the  railway ;  and  I'll  drop 
you  at  the  foot-path,  in  the  gig.  You  can  get 
on  to  your  own  place  afterward  by  the  evening 
train.  It  puts  you  to  no  inconvenience ;  and  it's 
doing  the  kind  thing  by  an  old  friend.  There's 
no  risk  of  being  found  out.  I'm  to  drive,  re- 
member !  There's  no  servant  with  us,  old  boy, 
to  notice,  and  tell  tales." 

Even  Arnold  began  to  see  dimly  by  this  time 
that  he  was  likely  to  pay  his  debt  of  obligation 
with  interest — as  Sir  Patrick  had  foretold. 


"  What  am  I  to  say  to  her?"  he  asked.  "  I'm 
bound  to  do  all  I  can  do  to  help  you,  and  I  will. 
But  what  am  I  to  say  ?" 

It  was  a  natural  question  to  put.  It»was  not 
an  easy  question  to  answer.  What  a  man,  un- 
der given  muscular  circumstances,  could  do,  no 
person  living  knew  better  than  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn.  Of  what  a  man,  under  given  social  cir- 
cumstances, could  say,  no  person  living  knew  less. 

"Say?"  he  repeated.  "Look  here!  say  I'm 
half  distracted,  and  all  that.  And — wait  a  bit 
— tell  her  to  stop  where  she  is  till  I  write  to 
her." 

Arnold  hesitated.  Absolutely  ignorant  of  that 
low  and  limited  form  of  knowledge  which  is  call- 
ed "knowledge  of  the  world,"  his  inbred  deli- 
cacy of  mind  revealed  to  him  the  serious  diffi- 
culty of  the  position  which  his  friend  was  asking 
him  to  occupy  as  plainly  as  if  he  was  looking  at 
it  through  the  warily-gathered  experience  of  so- 
ciety of  a  man  of  twice  his  age. 

"Can't  you  write  to  her  now,  Geoffrey?"  he 
asked. 

' '  What's  the  good  of  that  ?" 

"Consider  for  a  minute,  and  you  will  see. 
You  have  trusted  me  with  a  very  awkward  se- 
cret. I  may  be  wrong — I  never  was  mixed  up 
in  s::ch  a  matter  before — but  to  present  myself 
to  this  lady  as  your  messenger  seems  exposing 
her  to  a  dreadful  humiliation.  Am  I  to  go  and 
tell  her  to  her  face  :  '  I  know  what  you  are  hid- 
ing from  the  knowledge  of  all  the  world ; '  and  is 
she  to  be  expected  to  endure  it  ?" 

"Bosh!"  said  Geoffrey.  "They  can  endure 
a  deal  more  than  you  think  for.  I  wish  you 
had  heard  how  she  bullied  me,  in  this  very 
place.  My  good  fellow,  you  don't  understand 
women.  The  grand  secret,  in  dealing  with  a 
woman,  is  to  take  her  as  you  take  a  cat,  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck — " 

"  I  can't  face  her — unless  you  will  help  me  by 
breaking  the  thing  to  her  first.  I'll  stick  at  no 
sacrifice  to  serve  you  ;  but — hang  it ! — make  al- 
lowances, Geoffrey,  for  the  difficulty  you  are 
putting  me  in.  I  am  almost  a  stranger ;  I 
don't  know  how  Miss  Silvester  may  receive  me, 
before  I  can  open  my  lips." 

Those  last  words  touched  the  question  on  its 
practical  side.  The  matter-of-fact  view  of  the 
difficulty  was  a  view  which  Geoffrey  instantly 
recognized  and  understood. 

"She  has  the  devil's  own  temper,"  he  said. 
"There's  no  denying  that.  Perhaps  I'd  better 
write.  Have  we  time  to  go  into  the  house  ?" 

"No.  The  house  is  full  of  people,  and  we 
haven't  a  minute  to  spare.  Write  at  once,  and 
write  here.  I  have  got  a  pencil. " 

"  What  am  I  to  write  on  ?" 

"Any  thing — your  brother's  card." 

Geoffrey  took  the  pencil  which  Arnold  offered 
to  him,  and  looked  at  the  card.  The  lines  his 
brother  had  written  covered  it.  There  was  no 
room  left.  He  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  produced 
a  letter — the  letter  which  Anne  had  referred  to 
at  the  interview  between  them  ;  the  letter  which 
she  had  written  to  insist  on  his  attending  the 
lawn-party  at  Windygates. 

"  This  will  do,"  be  said.  "  It's  one  of  Anne's 
own  letters  to  me.  There's  room  on  the  fourth 
page.  If  i  write,"  he  added,  turning  suddenly 
on  Arnold,  "you  promise  to  take  it  to  her? 
Your  hand  on  the  bargain!" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"THAT  WILL  DO  THE  BUSINESS!     READ  IT  YOURSELF,  ARNOLD— IT'S  NOT  so 

BADLT   WRITTEN." 


He  held  out  the  hand  which  had  saved  Ar- 
nold's life  in  Lisbon  Harbor,  and  received  Ar- 
nold's promise,  in  remembrance  of  that  time. 

"  All  right,  old  fellow.  I  can  tell  you  how  to 
find  the  place  as  we  go  along  in  the  gig.  By- 
the-by,  there's  one  thing  that's  rather  important. 
I'd  better  mention  it  while  I  think  of  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  You  mustn't  present  yourself  at  the  inn  in 
your  own  name ;  and  you  mustn't  ask  for  her 
by  her  name." 

"Who  am  I  to  ask  for?" 

"  It's  a  little  awkward.  She  has  gone  there 
as  a  married  woman,  in  case  they're  particular 
about  taking  her  in — " 

"  I  understand.     Go  on." 

"And  she  has  planned  to  tell  them  (by  way 
of  making  it  all  right  and  straight  for  both  of 
us,  you  know)  that  she  expects  her  husband  to 
join  her.  If  I  had  been  able  to  go  I  should 
have  asked  at  the  door  for  '  my  wife. '  You  are 
going  in  my  place — " 

"  And  I  must  ask  at  the  door  for  '  my  wife,' 
or  I  shall  expose  Miss  Silvester  to  unpleasant 
consequences  ? 

"  You  don't  object  ?" 


"  Not  I !  I  don't  care  what  I  say  to  the  peo- 
ple of  the  inn.  It's  the  meeting  with  Miss  Sil- 
vester that  I'm  afraid  of." 

"  I'll  put  that  right  for  you — never  fear!" 

He  went  at  once  to  the  table  and  rapidly  scrib- 
bled a  few  lines — then  stopped  and  considered. 
"  Will  that  -do  ?"  he  asked  himself.  "  No ;  I'd 
better  say  something  spooney  to  quiet  her."  lie 
considered  again,  added  a  line,  and  brought  his 
hand  down  on  the  table  with  a  cheery  smack. 
"That  will  do  the  business!  Read  it  yourself, 
Arnold — it's  not  so  badly  written." 

Arnold  read  the  note  without  appearing  to 
share  his  friend's  favorable  opinion  of  it. 

"This  is  rather  short,"  he  said. 

"  Have  I  time  to  make  it  longer?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  let  Miss  Silvester  see  for 
herself  that  you  have  no  time  to  make  it  longer. 
The  train  starts  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  Put 
the  time." 

"Oh,  all  right!  and  the  date  too,  if  you 
like." 

He  had  just  added  the  desired  words  and  fig- 
ares,  and  had  given  the  revised  letter  to  Arnold, 
when  Sir  Patrick  returned  to  announce  that  the 
gig  was  waiting. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Come !"  he  said.  "You  haven't  a  moment 
to  lose!" 

Geoffrey  started  to  his  feet.    Arnold  hesitated. 

"  I  must  see  Blanche !"  he  pleaded.  ' '  I  can't 
leave  Blanche  without  saying  good-by.  Where 
is  she?" 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  steps,  with  a  smile. 
Blanche  had  followed  him  from  the  house.  Ar- 
nold ran  out  to  her  instantly. 

"Going?"  she  said,  a  little  sadly. 

"I  shall  be  back  in  two  days,"  Arnold  whis- 
pered. "It's  all  right!  Sir  Patrick  consents." 

She  freld  him  fast  by  the  arm.  The  hurried 
parting  before  other  people  seemed  to  be  not  a 
parting  to  Blanche's  taste. 

"  You  will  lose  the  train !"  cried  Sir  Patrick. 

Geoffrey  seized  Arnold  by  Uie  arm  which 
Blanche  was  holding,  and  tore  him — literally 
tore  him — away.  The  two  were  out  of  sight, 
in  the  shrubbery,  before  Blanche's  indignation 
found  words,  and  addressed  itself  to  her  uncle. 

"Why  is  that  brute  going  away  with  Mr. 
Brinkworth  ?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  Delamayn  is  called  to  London  by  his  fa- 
ther's illness,"  replied  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  don't 
like  him?" 

"I  hate  him!" 

Sir  Patrick  reflected  a  little. 

"  She  is  a  young  girl  of  eighteen,"  he  thought 
to  himself.  "  And  I  am  an  old  man  of  seventy. 
Curious,  that  we  Jhould  agree  about  any  thing. 
More  than  curious  that  we  should  agree  in  dis- 
liking Mr.  Delamayn." 

He  roused  himself,  and  looked  again  at 
Blanche.  She  was  seated  at  the  table,  with 
her  head  on  her  hand;  absent,  and  out  of 
spirits — thinking  of  Arnold,  and  yet,  with  the  fu- 
ture all  smooth  before  them,  not  thinking  happily. 

"Why,  Blanche!  Blanche!"  cried  Sir  Pat- 
rick, "one  would  think  he  had  gone  for  a  voy- 
age round  the  world.  You  silly  child !  he  will 
be  back  again  the  day  after  to-morrow. " 

"I  wish  he  hadn't  gone  with  that  man !"  said 
Blanche.  "I  wish  he  hadn't  got  that  man  for  a 
friend!" 

"There !  there !  the  man  was  rude  enough,  I 
own.  Never  mind !  he  will  leave  the  man  at  the 
second  station.  Come  back  to  the  ball-room 
with  me.  Dance  it  off,  my  dear — dance  it  off!" 

"  No,"  returned  Blanche.  "I'm  in  no  humor 
for  dancing.  I  shall  go  up  stairs,  and  talk  about 
it  to  Anne." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort !"  said  a  third 
voice,  suddenly  joining  in  the  conversation. 

Both  uncle  and  niece  looked  up,  and  found 
Lady  Lundie  at  the  top  of  the  summer-house 
steps. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  mention  that  woman's  name 
again  in  my  hearing,"  pursued  her  ladyship. 
"Sir  Patrick!  1  warned  you  (if  you  remem- 
ber ?)  that  the  matter  of  the  governess  was  not 
a  matter  to  be  trifled  with.  My  worst  anticipa- 
tions are  realized.  Miss  Silvester  has  left  the 
house !" 


CHAPTER  THE^  EIGHTH. 

THE   SCANDAL. 

IT  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  the 
guests  at  Lady  Lundie's  lawn-party  began  to 
compare  notes  together  in  corners,  and  to  agree 


in  arriving  at  a  general  conviction  that  "  some- 
thing was  wrong. " 

Blanche  had  mysteriously  disappeared  from 
her  partners  in  the  dance.  Lady  Lundie  had 
mysteriously  abandoned  her  guests.  Blanche 
had  not  come  back.  Lady  Lundie  had  re- 
turned with  an  artificial  smile,  and  a  preoc- 
cupied manner.  She  acknowledged  that  she 
was  "not  veiy  well."  The  same  excuse  had 
been  given  to  account  for  Blanche's  absence — 
and,  again  (some  time  previously),  to  explain 
Miss  Silvester's  withdrawal  from  the  croquet! 
A  wit  among  the  gentlemen  declared  it  remind- 
ed him  of  declining  a  verb.  "I  am  not  very 
well ;  thou  art  not  very  well ;  she  is  not  very 
well" — and  so  on.  Sir  Patrick  too !  Only 
think  of  the  sociable  Sir  Patrick  being  in  a 
state  of  seclusion — hobbling  up  and  down  by 
himself  in  the  loneliest  part  of  the  garden. 
And  the  servants  again !  it  had  even  spread  to 
the  servants !  They  were  presuming  to  whisper 
in  corners,  like  their  betters.  The  house-maids 
appeared,  spasmodically,  where  house-maids  had 
no  business  to  be.  Doors  banged  and  petticoats 
whisked  in  the  upper  regions.  Something  wrong 
— depend  upon  it,  something  wrong !  ' '  We  had 
much  better  go  away.  My  dear,  order  the  car- 
riage."— "Louisa,  love,  no  more  dancing;  your 
papa  is  going." — "  G-'oorf-afternoon,  Lady  Lun- 
die ! " — "  Haw !  thanks  very  much ! " — ' '  So  sorry 
for  dear  Blanche!" — "Oh,  it's  been  too  charm- 
ing !"  So  Society  jabbered  its  poor,  nonsensical 
little  jargon,  and  got  itself  politely  out  of  the  way 
before  the  storm  came. 

This  was  exactly  the  consummation  of  events 
for  which  Sir  Patrick  had  been  waiting  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  garden. 

There  was  no  evading  the  responsibility  which 
was  now  thrust  upon  him.  Lady  Lundie  had  an- 
nounced it  as  a  settled  resolution,  on  her  part,  to 
trace  Anne  to  the  place  in  which  she  had  taken 
refuge,  and  discover  (purely  in  the  interests  of 
virtue)  whether  she  actually  was  married  or  not. 
Blanche  (already  overwrought  by  the  excitement 
of  the  day)  had  broken  into  an  hysterical  passion 
of  tears  on  hearing  the  news,  and  had  then,  on 
recovering,  taken  a  view  of  her  own  of  Anne's 
flight  from  the  house.  Anne  would  never  have 
kept  her  marriage  a  secret  from  Blanche ;  Anne 
would  never  have  written  such  a  formal  farewell 
letter  as  she  had  written  to  Blanche — if  things 
were  going  as  smoothly  with  her  as  she  was  try- 
ing to  make  them  believe  at  Windygates.  Some 
dreadful  trouble  had  fallen  on  Anne — and  Blanche 
was  determined  (as  Lady  Lundie  was  determined) 
to  find  out  where  she  had  gone,  and  to  follow, 
and  help  her. 

It  was  plain  to  Sir  Patrick  (to  whom  both  la- 
dies had  opened  their  hearts,  at  separate  inter- 
views) that  his  sister-in-law,  in  one  way,  and  his 
niece  in  another,  were  equally  likely — if  not  duly 
restrained — to  plunge  headlong  into  acts  of  in- 
discretion which  might  lead  to  very  undesirable 
results.  A  man  in  authority  was  sorely  needed 
at  Windygates  that  afternoon — and  ISir  Patrick 
was  fain  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  the  man. 

"Much  is  to  be  said  for,  and  much  is  to  be 
said  against,  a  single  life,"  thought  the  old  gen- 
tleman, hobbling  up  and  down  the  sequestered 
garden-path  to  which  he  had  retired,  and  apply- 
ing himself  at  shorter  intervals  than  usual  to  the 
knob  of  his  ivory  cane.  ' '  This,  however,  is,  I 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


45 


take  it,  certain.  A  man's  married  friends  can't 
prevent  him  from  leading  the  life  of  a  bachelor, 
if  he  pleases.  But  they  can,  and  do,  take  devil- 
ish good  care  that  he  sha'n't  enjoy  it !" 

Sir  Patrick's  meditations  were  interrupted  by 
the  appearance  of  a  sen-ant,  previously  instruct- 
ed to  keep  him  informed  of  the  progress  of  events 
at  the  house. 

"  They're  all  gone,  Sir  Patrick,"  said  the  man. 

"That's  a  comfort,  Simpson.  \Ve  have  no 
visitors  to  deal  with  now,  except  the  visitors  who 
are  staying  in  the  house?'' 

"None,  Sir  Patrick." 

"They're  all  gentlemen,  are  they  not?" 

"Yes,"  Sir  Patrick." 

"That's  another  comfort,  Simpson.  Very 
good.  I'll  see  Lady  Lundie  first." 

Does  any  other  form  of  human  resolution  ap- 
proach the  firmness  of  a  woman  who  is  bent  on 
discovering  the  frailties  of  another  woman  whom 
she  hates  ?  You  may  move  rocks,  under  a  given 
set  of  circumstances.  But  here  is  a  delicate  being 
in  petticoats,  who  shrieks  if  a  spider  drops  on  her 
neck,  and  shudders  if  you  approach  her  after  hav- 
ing eaten  an  onion.  Can  you  move  her,  under 
a  given  set  of  circumstances,  as  set  forth  above  ? 
Not  you ! 

Sir  Patrick  found  her  ladyship  instituting  her 
inquiries  on  the  same  admirably  exhaustive  sys- 
tem which  is  pursued,  in  cases  of  disappearance, 
by  the  police.  Who  was  the  last  witness  who 
had  seen  the  missing  person?  Who  was  the 
last  servant  who  had  seen  Anne  Silvester  ?  Be- 
gin with  the  men-servants,  from  the  butler  at  the 
top  to  the  stable-boy  at  the  bottom.  Go  on  with 
the  women-servants,  from  the  cook  in  all  her 
glory  to  the  small  female  child  who  weeds  the 
garden.  Lady  Lundie  had  cross-examined  her 
way  downward  as  far  as  the  page,  when  Sir  Pat- 
rick joined  her. 

"My  dear  lady!  pardon  me  for  reminding 
yon  again,  that  this  is  a  free  country,  and  that 
you  have  no  claim  whatever  to  investigate  Miss 
Silvester's  proceedings  after  she  has  left  your 
house." 

Lady  Lundie  raised  her  eyes,  devotionally,  to 
the  ceiling.  She  looked  like  a  martyr  to  duty. 
If  you  had  seen  her  ladyship  at  that  moment, 
you  would  have  said  yourself,  "A  martyr  to 
duty.'' 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick !  As  a  Christian  woman, 
that  is  not  my  way  of  looking  at  it.  This  un- 
happy per^h  has  lived  under  my  roof.  This 
unhappy  person  has  been  the  companion  of 
Blanche.  I  am  responsible — I  am,  in  a  man- 
ner, morally  responsible.  I  would  give  the 
world  to  be  able  to  dismiss  it  as  you  do.  But 
no !  I  must  be  satisfied  that  she  is  married.  In 
the  interests  of  propriety.  For  the  quieting  of 
my  own  conscience.  Before  I  lay  my  head  on 
my  pillow  to-night,  Sir  Patrick — before  I  lay  my 
head  on  my  pillow  to-night!" 

"One  word,  Lady  Lundie — " 

"No!"  repeated  her  ladyship,  with  the  most 
pathetic  gentleness.  "You  are  right,  I  dare 
say,  from  the  worldly  point  of  view.  I  can't 
take  the  worldly  point  of  view.  The  worldly 
point  of  view  hurts  me."  She  turned,  with  im- 
pressive gravity,  to  the  page.  "  You  know  where 
you  will  go,  Jonathan,  if  you  tell  lies!" 

Jonathan  was  lazy,  Jonathan  was  pimply, 
Jonathan  was  fat — but  Jonathan  was  orthodox. 


He  answered  that  he  did  know;  and,  what  is 
more,  he  mentioned  the  place. 

Sir  Patrick  saw  that  further  opposition  on  his 
part,  at  that  moment,  would  be  worse  than  use- 
less. He  wisely  determined  to  wait,  before  he 
interfered  again,  until  Lady  Lundie  had  thor- 
oughly exhausted  herself  and  her  inquiries.  At 
the  same  time — as  it  was  impossible,  in  the  pres- 
ent state  of  her  ladyship's  temper,  to  provide 
against  what  might  happen  if  the  inquiries  after 
Anne  unluckily  proved  successful  —  he  decided 
on  taking  measures  to  clear  the  house  of  the 
guests  (in  the  interests  of  all  parties)  for  the  next 
four-and-twenty  hours. 

"I  only  want  to  ask  yon  a  question,  Lady 
Lundie,"  he  resumed.  "The  position  of  the 
gentlemen  who  are  staying  here  is  not  a  very 
pleasant  one  while  all  this  is  going  on.  If  you 
had  been  content  to  let  the  matter  pass  without 
notice,  we  should  have  done  very  well.  As  things 
are,  don't  you  think  it  will  be  more  convenient 
to  every  body  if  I  relieve  you  of  the  responsibili- 
ty of  entertaining  your  guests  ?" 

"As  head' of  the  family?"  stipulated  Lady 
Lundie. 

"As  head  of  the  family !"  answered  Sir  Pat- 
rick. • 

"  I  gratefully  accept  the  proposal,"  said  Lady 
Lundie. 

"I  beg  you  won't  mention  it,"  rejoined  Sir 
Patrick. 

He  quitted  the  room,  leaving  Jonathan  under 
examination.  He  and  his  brother  (the  late  Sir 
Thomas)  had  chosen  widely  different  paths  in 
life,  and  had  seen  but  little  of  each  other  since 
the  time  when  they  had  been  boys.  Sir  Patrick's 
recollections  (on  leaving  Lady  Lundie)  appeared 
to  have  taken  him  back  to  that  time,  and  to  have 
inspired  him  with  a  certain  tenderness  for  his 
brother's  memory.  He  shook  his  head,  and  sigh- 
ed a  sad  little  sigh.  ' '  Poor  Tom  ! "  he  said  to 
himself,  softly,  after  he  had  shut  the  door  on  his 
brother's  widow.  "Poor  Tom !" 

On  crossing  the  hall,  he  stopped  the  first  serv- 
ant he  met,  to  inquire  after  Blanche.  Miss 
Blanche  was  quiet,  up  stairs,  closeted  with  her 
maid  in  her  own  room.  "  Quiet  ?"  thought  Sir 
Patrick.  "That's  a  bad  sign.  I  shall  hear 
more  of  my  niece. " 

Pending  that  event,  the  next  thing  to  do  was 
to  find  the  guests.  Unerring  instinct  led  Sir 
Patrick  to  the  billiard-room.  There  he  found 
them,  in  solemn  conclave  assembled,  wondering 
what  they  had  better  do.  Sir  Patrick  put  them 
all  at  their  ease  in  two  minutes. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  day's  shooting  to-mor- 
row ?"  he  asked. 

Every  man  present — sportsman  or  not — said- 
yes. 

"  You  can  start  from  this  house,"  pursued  Sir 
Patrick;  "or  you  can  start  from  a  shooting- 
cottage  which  is  on  the  Windygates  property — 
among  the  woods,  on  the  other  side  of  the  moor. 
The  weather  looks  pretty  well  settled  (for  Scot- 
land), and  there  are  plenty  of  horses  in  the  sta- 
bles. It  is  useless  to  conceal  from  you,  gentle- 
men, that  events  have  taken  a  certain  unexpect- 
ed turn  in  my  sister-in-law's  family  circle.  You 
will  be  equally  Lady  Lundie's  guests,  whether 
you  choose  the  cottage  or  the  house.  For  the 
next  twenty-four  hours  (let  us  say) — wnich  shall 
it  be?" 


46 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Every  body — with  er  without  rheumatism — 
answered  "the  cottage!" 

"Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "It  is 
arranged  to  ride  over  to  the  shooting -cottage 
this  evening,  and  to  try  the  moor,  on  that  side, 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  If  events  here 
will  allow  me,  I  shall  be  delighted  'to  accompany 
you,  and  do  the  honors  as  well  as  I  can.  If  not, 
I  am  sure  you  will  accept  my  apologies  for  to- 
night, and  permit  Lady  Lundie's  steward  to  see 
to  your  comfort  in  my  place. " 

Adopted  unanimously.  Sir  Patrick  left  the 
guests  to  their  billiards,  and  went  out  to  give  the 
necessary  orders  at  the  stables. 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche  remained  portent- 
ously quiet  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  house ; 
while  Lady  Lundie  steadily  pursued  her  inqui- 
ries down  stairs.  She  got  on  from  Jonathan  (last 
of  the  males,  indoors)  to  the  coachman  (first  of 
the  males,  out-of-doors),  and  dug  down,  man  by 
man,  through  that  new  stratum,  until  she  struck 
the  stable-boy  at  the  bottom.  Not  an  atom  of 
information  having  been  extracted,  .in  the  house 
or  out  of  the  house,  from  man  or  boy,  her  lady- 
ship fell  back  on  the  women  next.  She  pulled 
the  bell,  and  summoned  the  cook — Hester  Deth- 
ridge. 

A  very  remarkable-looking  person  entered  the 
room. 

Elderly  and  quiet ;  scrupulously  clean ;  emi- 
nently respectable;  her  gray  hair  neat  and 
smooth  under  her  modest  white  cap ;  her  eyes, 
set  deep  in  their  orbits,  looking  straight  at  any 
person  who  spoke  to  her — here,  at  a  first  view, 
was  a  steady,  trust-worthy  woman.  Here  also, 
on  closer  inspection,  was  a  woman  with  the  seal 
of  some  terrible  past  suffering  set  on  her  for  the 
rest  of  her  life.  You  felt  it,  rather  than  saw  it, 
in  the  look  of  immovable  endurance  which  un- 
derlaid her  expression  —  in  the  deathlike  tran- 
quillity which  never  disappeared  from  her  man- 
ner. ,  Her  story  was  a  sad  one — so  far  as  it  was 
known.  She  had  entered  Lady  Lundie's  service 
at  the  period  of  Lady  Lundie's  marriage  to  Sir 
Thomas.  Her  character  (given  by  the  clergy- 
man of  her  parish)  described  her  as  having  been 
married  to  an  inveterate  drunkard,  and  as  hav- 
ing suffered  unutterably  during  her  husband's 
lifetime.  There  were  drawbacks  to  engaging 
her,  now  that  she  was  a  widow.  On  one  of  the 
many  occasions,  on  which  her  husband  had  per- 
sonally ill-treated  her,  he  had  struck  her  a  blow 
which  had  produced  very  remarkable  nervous 
results.  She  had  lain  insensible  many  days  to- 
gether, and  had  recovered  with  the  total  loss  of 
her  speech.  In  addition  to  this  objection,  she 
was  odd,  at  times,  in  her  manner ;  and  she  made 
it  a  condition  of  accepting  any  situation,  that  she 
should  be  privileged  to  sleep  in  a  room  by  her- 
self. As  a  set-off  against  all  this,  it  was  to  be 
said,  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that  she 
was  sober ;  rigidly  honest  in  all  her  dealings ; 
and  one  of  the  best  cooks  in  England.  In  con- 
sideration of  this  last  merit,  the  late  Sir  Thomas 
had  decided  on  giving  her  a  trial,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  he  had  never  dined  in  his  life  as  he 
dined  when  Hester  Dethridge  was  at  the  head 
of  his  kitchen.  She  remained,  after  his  death, 
in  his  widow's  service.  Lady  Lundie  was  far 
from  liking  her,  An  unpleasant  suspicion  at- 
tached to  the  cook,  which  Sir  Thomas  had  over- 


looked, but  which  persons  less  sensible  of  the 
immense  importance  of  dining  well  could  not  fail 
to  regard  as  a  serious  objection  to  her.  Medi- 
cal men,  consulted  about  her  case,  discovered 
certain  physiological  anomalies  in  it  which  led 
them  to  suspect  the  woman  of  feigning  dumb- 
ness, for  some  reason  best  known  to  herself.  She 
obstinately  declined  to  learn  the  deaf  and  dumb 
alphabet — on  the  ground  that  dumbness  was  not 
associated  *vith  deafness  in  her  case.  Strata- 
gems were  invented  (seeing  that  she  really  did 
possess  the  use  of  her  ears)  to  entrap  her  into 
also  using  her  speech,  and  failed.  Efforts  were 
made  to  induce  her  to  answer  questions  relating 
to  her  past  life  in  her  husband's  time.  She  flatly 
declined  to  reply  to  them,  one  and  all.  At  cer- 
tain intervals,  strange  impulses  to  get  a  holiday 
away  ffom  the  house  appeared  to  seize  her.  If 
she  was  resisted,  she  passively  declined  to  do  her 
work.  If  she  was  threatened  with  dismissal,  she 
impenetrably  bowed  her  head,  as  much,  as  to 
say,  "  Give  me  the  word,  and  I  go."  Over  and 
over  again,  Lady  Lundie  had  decided,  naturally 
enough,  on  no  longer  keeping  such  a  servant  as 
this ;  but  she  had  never  yet  carried  the  decision 
to  execution.  A  cook  who  is  a  perfect  mistress 
of  her  art,  who  asks  for  no  perquisites,  who  al- 
lows no  waste,  who  never  quarrels  with  the  other 
servants,  who  drinks  nothing  stronger  than  tea, 
who  is  to  be  trusted  with  untold  gold — is  not  a 
cook  easily  replaced.  In  this  mortal  life  we  put 
up  with  many  persons  and  things,  as  Lady  Lun- 
die put  up  with  her  cook.  The  woman  lived,  as 
it  were,  on  the  brink  of  dismissal ;  but  thus  far 
the  woman  kept  her  place — getting  her  holidays 
when  she  asked  for  them  (which,  to  do  her  jus- 
tice, was  not  often),  and  sleeping  always  (go 
where  she  might  with  the  family)  with  a  locked 
door,  in  a  room  by  herself. 

Hester  Dethridge  advanced  slowly  to  the  table 
at  which  Lady  Lundie  was  sitting.  A  slate  and 
pencil  hung  at  her  side,  which  she  used  for  mak- 
ing such  replies  as  were  not  to  be  expressed  by 
a  gesture  or  by  a  motion  of  the  head.  She  took 
up  the  slate  and  pencil,  and  waited  with  stony 
submission  for  her  mistress  to  begin. 

Lady  Lundie  opened  the  proceedings  with  the 
regular  formula  of  inquiry  which  she  had  used 
with  all  the  other  servants. 
•   "Do  you  know  that  Miss  Silvester  has  left  the 
house  ?" 

The  cook  nodded  her  head  affirmatively. 

" Do  you  knpw  at  what  time  she  Wt  it?" 

Another  affirmative  reply.  The  first  which 
Lady  Lundie  had  received  to  that  question  yet. 
She  eagerly  went  on  to  the  next  inquiry. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  she  left  the  house  ?" 

A  third  affirmative  reply. 

"Where?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote  slowly  on  the  slate,  in 
singularly  firm  upright  characters  for  a  woman 
in  her  position  of  life,  these  words : 

' '  On  the  road  that  leads  to  the  railway.  Nigh 
to  Mistress  Chew's  Farm." 

"  What  did  you  want  at  Chew's  Farm  ?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote :  "I  wanted  eggs  for 
the  kitchen,  and  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  myself. " 

"  Did  Miss  Silvester  see  you  ?" 

A  negative  shake  of  the  head. 

"Did  she  take  the  turning  that  leads  to  the 
railway  ?" 

Another  negative  shake  of  the  head. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


47 


It 


'  SHE   TOOK   UP   THE   SLATE   AND   PENCIL,    AN'D   WAITED  WITH   STONY  SUBMISSION   FOR 
HER   MISTRESS   TO   BEGIN." 


" She  went  on,  toward  the  moor?" 

An  affirmative  reply. 

"  What  did  she  do  when  she  got  to  the  moor?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote :  ' '  She  took  the  foot- 
path which  leads  to  Craig  Fernie. " 

Lady  Lundie  rose  excitedly  to  her  feet.  There 
was  but  one  place  that  a  stranger  could  go  to  at 
Craig  Fernie.  "The  inn!"  exclaimed  her  lady- 
ship. ' '  She  has  gone  to  the  inn ! " 

Hester  Dethridge  waited  immovably.  Lady 
Lundie  put  a  last  precautionary  question,  in 
these  words : 

"  Have  you  reported  what  you  have  seen  to 
any  body  else  ?" 

An  affirmative  reply.  Lady  Lundie  had  not  bar- 
gained for  that.  Hester  Dethridge  (she  thought) 
must  surely  have  misunderstood  her. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  told  somebody 
else  what  you  have  just  told  me  ?" 

Another  affirmative  reply. 

"A  person  who  questioned  you,  as  I  have 
done  ?" 

A  third  affirmative  reply. 

"Who  was  it?" 

Hester  Dethridge  wrote  on  her  slate:  "Miss 
Blanche. " 

Lady  Lundie  stepped  back,  staggered  by  the 
discovery  that  Blanche's  resolution  to  trace  Anne 
Silvester  was,  to  all  appearance,  as  firmly  settled 
as  her  own.  Her  step-daughter  was  keeping  her 
own  counsel,  and  acting  on  her  own  responsibil- 
ity— her  step-daughter  might  be  an  awkward  ob- 
stacle in  the  way.  The  manner  in  which  Anne 
had  left  the  house  had  mortally  offended  Lady 


Lundie.  An  inveterately  vindictive  woman,  she 
had  resolved  to  discover  whatever  compromising 
elements  might  exist  in  the  governess's  secret, 
and  to  make  them  public  property  (from  a  para- 
mount sense  of  duty,  of  course)  among  her  own 
circle  of  friends.  But  to  do  this — with  Blanche 
acting  (as  might  certainly  be  anticipated)  in  di- 
rect opposition  to  her,  and  openly  espousing 
Miss  Silvester's  interests — was  manifestly  im- 
possible. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done — and  that  instant- 
ly— was-  to  inform  Blanche  that  she  was  discov- 
ered, and  to  forbid  her  to  stir  in  the  matter. 

Lady  Lundie  rang  the  bell  twice — thus  inti- 
mating, according  to  the  laws  of  the  household, 
that  she  required  the  attendance  of  her  own 
"maid.  She  then  turned  to  the  cook — still  wait- 
ing her  pleasure,  with  stony  composure,  slate  in 
hand. 

"You  have  done  wrong,"  said  her  ladyship, 
severely.  "  I  am  your  mistress.  You  are  bound 
to  answer  your  mistress — " 

Hester  Dethridge  bowed  her  head,  in  icy  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  principle  laid  down — so  far. 

The  bow  was  an  interruption.  Lady  Lundie 
resented  it. 

"  But  Miss  Blanche  is  not  your  mistress,"  she 
went  on,  sternly.  "  You  are  very  much  to  blame 
for  answering  Miss  Blanche's  inquiries  about 
Miss  Silvester." 

Hester  Dethridge,  perfectly  unmoved,  wrote 
her  justification  on  her  slate,  in  two  stiff  sen- 
tences :  "I  had  ho  orders  not  to  answer.  I 
keep  nobody's  secrets  but  my  own." 


48 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


That  reply  settled  the  question  of  the  cook's 
dismissal — the  question  which  had  been  pending 
for  months  past. 

"You  are  an  insolent  woman !  I  have  borne 
with  you  long  enough — I  will  bear  with  you  no 
longer.  When  your  month  is  up,  you  go ! " 

In  those  words  Lady  Lundie  dismissed  Hester 
Dethridge  from  her  service. 

Not  the  slightest  change  passed  over  the  sin- 
ister tranquillity  of  the  cook.  She  bowed  her 
head  again,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  sentence 
pronounced  on  her — dropped  her  slate  at  her 
side — turned  about — and  left  the  room.  The 
woman  was  alive  in  the  world,  and  working  in 
the  world ;  and  yet  (so  far  as  all  human  inter- 
ests were  concerned)  she  was  as  completely  out 
of  the  world  as  if  she  had  been  screwed  down  in 
her  coffin,  and  laid  in  her  grave. 

Lady  Lundie's  maid  came  into  the  room  as 
Hester  left  it. 

"  Go  up  stairs  to  Miss  Blanche,"  said  her  mis- 
tress, "and  say  I  want  her  here.  Wait  a  min- 
ute!" She  paused,  and  considered.  Blanche 
might  decline  to  submit  to  her  step-mother's 
interference  with  her.  It  might  be  necessary  to 
appeal  to  the  higher  authority  of  her  guardian. 
"Do  you  know  where  Sir  Patrick  is?"  asked 
Lady  Lundie. 

"  I  heard  Simpson  say,  my  lady,  that  Sir  Pat- 
rick was  at  the  stables." 

"  Send  Simpson  with  a  message.  My  compli- 
ments to  Sir  Patrick — and  I  wish  to  see  him  im- 
mediately. " 


The  preparations  for  the  departure  to  the 
shooting-cottage  were  just  completed ;  and  the 
one  question  that  remained  to  be  settled  was, 
whether  Sir  Patrick  could  accompany  the  par- 
ty— when  the  man-servant  appeared  with  the 
message  from  his  mistress. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  gen- 
tlemen?" asked  Sir  Patrick.  "In  that  time  I 
shall  know  for  certain  whether  I  can  go  with 
you  or  not." 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  guests  decided  to 
wait.  The  younger  men  among  them  (being 
Englishmen)  naturally  occupied  their  leisure 
time  in  betting.  Would  Sir  Patrick  get  the  bet- 
ter of  the  domestic  crisis  ?  of  would  the  domes- 
tic crisis  get  the  better  of  Sir  Patrick  ?  The  do- 
mestic crisis  was  backed,  at  two  to  one,  to  win. 

Punctually  at  the  expiration  of  the  quarter 
of  an  hour,  Sir  Patrick  reappeared.  The  do- 
mestic crisis  had  betrayed  the  blind  confidence 
which  youth  and  inexperience  had  placed  in  it. 
Sir  Patrick  had  won  the  day. 

"Things  are  settled  and  quiet,  gentlemen; 
and  I  am  able  to  accompany  you,"  he  said. 
"There  are  two  ways  to  the  shooting-cottage. 
One — the  longest — passes  by  the  inn  at  Craig 
Fernie.  I  am  compelled  to  ask  you  to  go  with 
me  by  that  way.  While  you  push  on  to  the  cot- 
tage, I  must  drop  behind,  and  say  a  word  to  a 
person  who  is  staying  at  the  inn." 

He  had  quieted  Lady  Lundie — he  had  even 
quieted  Blanche.  But  it  was  evidently  on  the 
condition  that  he  was  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie  in 
their  places,  and  to  see  Anne  Silvester  himself. 
Without  a  word  more  of  explanation  he  mount- 
ed his  horse,  and  led  the  way  out.  The  shoot- 
ing-party left  Windygates. 


SECOND  SCENE.— THE  INN. 
CHAPTER    THE    NINTH. 

ANNE. 

"YE'LL  just  permit  me  to  remind  ye  again, 
young  leddy,  that  the  bottle's  full — exceptin' 
only  this  settin'-room,  and  the  bedchamber  yon- 
der belonging  to  it." 

So  spoke  "Mistress  Inchbare,"  landlady  of 
the  Craig  Fernie  Inn,  to  Anne  Silvester,  stand- 
ing in  the  parlor,  purse  in  hand,  and  ottering 
the  price*  of  the  two  rooms  before  she  claimed 
permission  to  occupy  them. 

The  time  of  the  afternoon  was  about  the  time 
when  Geoffrey  Delamayn  had  started  in  the  train, 
on  his  journey  to  London.  About  the  time  also, 
when  Arnold  Brinkworth  had  crossed  the  moor, 
and  was  mounting  the  first  rising  ground  which 
led  to  the  inn. 

Mistress  Inchbare  was  tall  and  thin,  and  de- 
cent and  dry.  Mistress  Inchbare's  unlovable  hair 
clung  fast  round  her  head  in  wiry  little  yellow 
curls.  Mistress  Inchbare's  hard  bones  showed 
themselves,  like  Mistress  Inchbare's  hard  Pres- 
byterianism,  without  any  concealment  or  compro- 
mise. In  short,  a  savagely-respectable  woman, 
who  plumed  herself  on  presiding  over  a  savage- 
ly-respectable inn. 

There  was  no-  competition  to  interfere  with 
Mistress  Inchbare.  She  regulated  her  own  prices, 
and  made  her  own  rules.  If  you  objected  to  her 
prices,  and  revolted  from  her  rules,  you  were  free 
to  go.  In  other  words,  you  were  free  to  cast 
yourself,  in  'the  capacity  of  houseless  wanderer, 
on  the  scanty  mercy  of  a  Scotch  wilderness. 
The  village  of  Craig  Fernie  was  a  collection  of 
hovels.  The  country  about  Craig  Fernie,  mount- 
ain on  one  side  and  moor  on  the  other,  held  no 
second  house  of  public  entertainment,  for  miles 
and  miles  round,  at  any  point  of  the  compass. 
No  rambling  individual  but  the  helpless  British 
Tourist  wanted  food  and  shelter  from  strangers, 
in  that  part  of  Scotland;  and  nobody  but  Mis- 
tress Inchbare  had  food  and  shelter  to  sell.  A 
more  thoroughly  independent  person  than  this 
was  not  to  be  found  on  the  face  of  the  hotel- 
keeping  earth.  The  most  universal  of  all  civil- 
ized terrors — the  terror  of  appearing  unfavorably 
in  the  newspapers — was  a  sensation  absolutely 
unknown  to  the  Empress  of  the  Inn.  You  lost 
your  temper,  and  threatened  to  send  her  bill  for 
exhibition  in  the  public  journals.  Mistress  Inch- 
bare  raised  no  objection  to  your  taking  any  course 
you  pleased  with  it.  "Eh,  man!  send  the  bill 
whar'  ye  like,  as  long  as  ye  pay  it  first.  There's 
nae  such  thing  as  a  newspaper  ever  darkens  my 
doors.  Ye've  got  the  Auld  and  New  Testaments 
in  your  bedchambers,  and  the  natural  history  o' 
Pairthshire  on  the  coffee-room  table — and  if 
that's  no'  reading  eneugh  for  ye,  ye  may  een  gae 
back  South  again,  and  get  the  rest  of  it  there. " 

This  was  the  inn  at  which  Anne  Silvester  had 
appeared  alone,  with  nothing  but  a  little  bag  in 
her  hand.  This  was  the  woman  whose  reluct- 
ance to  receive  her  she  innocently  expected  to 
overcome  by  showing  her  purse. 

"Mention  your  charge  for  the  rooms,"  she 
said.  "I  am  willing  to  pay  for  them  before- 
hand. " 

Her  majesty,  Mrs.  Inchbare,  never  even  looked 
at  her  subject's  poor  little  purse. 

"It  just  comes  to  this,  mistress,"  she  an- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


swered.  "I'm  no'  free  to  tak'  your  money,  if 
I'm  no'  free  to  let  ye  the  last  rooms  left  in  the 
hoose.  The  Craig  Fernie  hottle  is  a  faimily  hot- 
tie — and  has  its  ain  gude  name  to  keep  up. 
Ye're  ower-well-looking,  my  young  leddy,  to  be 
traveling  alone." 

The  time  had  been  when  Anne  would  have 
answered  sharply  enough.  The  hard  necessities 
of  her  position  made  her  patient  now. 

"I  have  already  told  you,"  she  said,  "my| 
husband  is  coming  here  to  join  me."    She  sighed  j 
wearily  as  she  repeated  her  ready-made  story —  j 
and  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  from  sheer 
inability  to  stand  any  longer. 

Mistress  Inchbare  looked  at  her,  with  the  ex- 
act measure  of  compassionate  interest  which  she 
might  have  shown  if  she  had  been  looking  at  a 
stray  dog  who  had  fallen  footsore  at  the  door  of 
the  inn. 

"We.jl!  weel!  sae  let  it  be.  Bide  awhile, 
and  rest  ye.  We'll,  no'  chairge  ye  for  that — and 
we'll  see  if  your  husband  comes.  I'll  just  let  the 
rooms,  mistress,  to  him,  instead  o'  lettin'  them 
to  you.  And,  sae,  good-morrow  t'  ye."  With 
that  final  announcement  of  her  royal  will  and 
pleasure,  the  Empress  of  the  Inn  withdrew. 

Anne  made  no  reply.  She  watched  the  land- 
lady out  of  the  room— and  then  struggled  to 
control  herself  no  longer.  In  her  position,  sus- 
picion was  doubly  insult.  The  hot  tears  of 
shame  gathered  in  her  eyes;  and  the  heart- 
ache wrung  her,  poor  soul — wrung  her  without 
mercy. 

A  trifling  noise  in  the  room  startled  her.  She 
looked  up,  and  detected  a  man  in  a  corner,  dust- 
ing the  furniture,  and  apparently  acting  in  the 
capacity  of  attendant  at  the  inn.  He  had  shown 
her  into  the  parlor  on  her  arrival ;  but  he  had 
remained  so  quietly  in  the  room  that  she  had 
never  noticed  him  since,  until  that  moment. 

He  was  an  ancient  man — with  one  eye  filmy 
and  blind,  and  one  eye  moist  and  merry.  His 
head  was  bald ;  his  feet  were  gouty ;  his  nose 
was  justly  celebrated  as  the  largest  nose  and  the 
reddest  nose  in  that  part  of  Scotland.  The  mild 
wisdom  of  years  was  expressed  mysteriously  in 
his  mellow  smile.  In  contact  with  this  wicked 
world,  his  manner  revealed  that  happy  mixture 
of  two  extremes — the  servility  which  just  touches 
independence,  and  the  independence  which  just 
touches  servility — attained  by  no  men  in  exist- 
ence but  Scotchmen.  Enormous  native  impu- 
dence, which  amused  but  never  offended ;  im- 
measurable cunning,  masquerading  habitually 
under  the  double  disguise  of  quaint  prejudice 
and  dry  humor,  were  the  solid  moral  founda- 
tions on  which  the  character  of  this  elderly  per- 
son was  built.  No  amount  of  whisky  ever  made 
him  drunk ;  and  no  violence  of  bell-ringing  ever  j 
hurried  his  movements.  Such  was  the  head- 
waiter  at  the  Craig  Fernie  Inn ;  known,  far  and 
wide,  to  local  fame,  as  "  Maister  Bishopriggs, 
Mistress  Inchbare's  right-hand  man." 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  Anne  asked, 
sharply. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  turned  himself  about  on  his 
gouty  feet ;  waved  his  duster  gently  in  the  air ; 
and  looked  at  Anne,  with  a  mild,  paternal  smile. 

"  Eh !  Am  just  doostin'  the  things ;  and  set- 
tin'  the  room  in  decent  order  for  ye. " 

"For  me?  Did  you  hear  what  the  landlady 
said?" 


Mr.  Bishopriggs  advanced  confidentially,  and 
pointed  with  a  very  unsteady  forefinger  to  the 
purse  which  Anne  still  held  in  her  hand. 

"Never  fash  yourseF  aboot  the  landleddy!" 
said  the  sage  chief  of  the  Craig  Fernie  waiters. 
"  Your  purse  speaks  for  you,  my  lassie.  Pet  it 
up!"  cried  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  waving  temptation 
away  from  him  with  the  duster.  "  In  wi'  it  into 
yer  pocket!  Sae  long  as  the  warld's  the  warld, 
I'll  uphaud  it  any  where — while  there's  siller  in 
the  purse,  there's  gude  in  the  woman !" 

Anne's  patience,  which  had  resisted  harder 
trials,  gave  way  at  this. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  speaking  to  me  in 
that  familiar  manner  ?"  she  asked,  rising  angrily 
to  her  feet  again. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  tucked  his  duster  under  his 
arm,  and  proceeded  to  satisfy  Anne  that  he 
shared  the  landlady's  view  of  her  position,  with- 
out sharing  the  severity  of  the  landlady's  princi- 
ples. "There's  nae  man  livin',"  said  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs, "looks  with  mair  indulgence  at  human 
frailty  than  my  ain  sel'.  Am  I  no'  to  be  familiar 
wi'  ye — when  I'm  auld  eneugh  to  be  a  fether  to 
ye,  and  ready  to  be  a  fether  to  ye  till  further 
notice  ?  Hech !  hech !  Order  your  bit  dinner, 
lassie.  Husband  or  no  husband,  ye've  got  a 
stomach,  and  ye  must  een  .eat.  There's  fesh 
and  there's  fowl — or,  maybe,  ye'll  be  for  the 
sheep's  head  singit,  when  they've  done  with  it 
at  the  tabble  dot  ?" 

There  was  but  one  way  of  getting  rid  of  him : 
"  Order  what  you  like,''  Anne  said,  "  and  leave 
the  room. "  Mr.  Bishopriggs  highly  approved  of 
the  first  half  of  the  sentence,  and  totally  over- 
looked the  second. 

"  Ay,  ay — just  pet  a'  yer  little  interests  in  my 
hands ;  it's  the  wisest  thing  ye  can  do.  Ask  for 
Maister  Bishopriggs  (that's  me)  when  ye  want  a 
decent  'sponsible  man  to  gi'  ye  a  word  of  advice. 
Set  ye  doon  again — set  ye  doon.  And  don't  tak' 
the  arm-chair.  Hech !  hech !  yer  husband  will 
be  coming,  ye  know,  and  he's  sure  to  want  it !" 
With  that  seasonable  pleasantry  the  venerable 
Bishopriggs  winked,  and  went  out. 

Anne  looked  at  her  watch.  By  her  calcula- 
tion it  was  not  far  from  the  hour  when  Geoffrey 
might  be  expected  to  arrive  at  the  inn,  assum- 
ing Geoffrey  to  have  left  Windygates  at  the  time 
agreed  on.  A  little  more  patience,  and  the  land- 
lady's scruples  would  be  satisfied,  and  the  ordeal 
would  be  at  an  end. 

Could  she  have  met  him  nowhere  else  than  at 
this  barbarous  house,  and  among  these  barbar- 
ous people  ? 

No.  Outside  the  doors  of  Windygates  she  had 
not  a  friend  to  help  her  in  all  Scotland.  There 
was  no  place  at  her  disposal  but  the  inn ;  and 
she  had  only  to  be  thankful  that  it  occupied  a 
sequestered  situation,  and  was  not  likely  to  be 
visited  by  any  of  Lady  Lundie's  friends.  What- 
ever the  risk  might  be,  the  end  in  view  justified 
her  in  confronting  it.  Her  whole  future  de- 
pended on  Geoffrey's  making  an  honest  woman 
of  her.  Not  her  future  with  him — that  way  there 
was  no  hope;  that  way  her  life  was  wasted. 
Her  future  with  Blanche — she  looked  forward  to 
nothing  now  but  her  future  with  Blanche. 

Her  spirits  sank  lower  and  lower.  The  tears 
rose  again.  It  would  only  irritate  him  if  he 
came  and  found  her  crying.  She  tried  to  divert 
her  mind  by  looking  about  the  room. 


50 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


There  was  very  little  to  see.  Except  that  it 
was  solidly  built  of  good  sound  stone,  the  Craig 
Fernie  hotel  differed  in  no  other  important  re- 
spect from  the  average  of  second-rate  English 
inns.  There  was  the  usual  slippery  black  sofa — 
constructed  to  let  you  slide  when  you  wanted  to 
rest.  There  was  the  usual  highly-varnished  arm- 
chair, expressly  manufactured  to  test  the  en- 
durance of  the  human  spine.  There  was  the 
usual  paper  on  the  walls,  of  the  pattern  designed 
to  make  your  eyes  ache  and  your  head  giddy. 
There  were  the  usual  engravings,  which  humanity 
never  tires  of  contemplating.  The  Royal  Portrait, 
in  the  first  place  of  honor.  The  next  greatest  of 
all  human  beings — the  Duke  of  Wellington — in 
the  second  place  of  honor.  The  third  greatest 
of  all  human  beings — the  local  member  of  par- 
liament— in  the  third  place  of  honor;  and  a 
hunting  scene,  in  the  dark.  A  door  opposite 
the  door  of  admission  from  the  passage  opened 
into  the  bedroom ;  and  a  window  at  the  side 
looked  out  on  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  ho- 
tel, and  commanded  a  view  of  the  vast  expanse 
of  the  Craig  Fernie  moor,  stretching  away  below 
the  rising  ground  on  which  the  house  was  built. 

Anne  turned  in  despair  from  the  view  in  the 
room  to  the  view  from  the  window.  Within  the 
last  half  hour  it  had  changed  for  the  worse.  The 
clouds  had  gathered ;  the  sun  was  hidden ;  the 
light  on  the  landscape  was  gray  and  dull.  Anne 
turned  from  the  window,  as  she  had  turned  from 
the  room.  She  was  just  making  the  hopeless  at- 
tempt to  rest  her  weary  limbs  on  the  sofa,  when 
the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps  in  the  passage 
caught  her  ear. 

Was  Geoffrey's  voice  among  them?    No. 

Were  the  strangers  coming  in  ? 

The  landlady  had  declined  to  let  her  have  the 
rooms :  it  was  quite  possible  that  the  strangers 
might  be  coming  to  look  at  them.  There  was 
no  knowing  who  they  might  be.  In  the  impulse 
of  the  moment  she  flew  to  the  bedchamber  and 
locked  herself  in. 

The  door  from  the  passage  opened,  and  Arnold 
Brinkworth — shown  in  by  Mr.  Bishopriggs — en- 
tered the  sitting-room. 

"Nobody  here!"  exclaimed  Arnold,  looking 
round.  "  Where  is  she?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pointed  to  the  bedroom  door. 
"Eh!  yer  good  leddy's  joost  in  the  bedcham- 
ber, nae  doot !" 

Arnold  started.  He  had  felt  no  difficulty 
(when  he  and  Geoffrey  had  discussed  the  ques- 
tion at  Windygates)  about  presenting  himself  at 
the  inn  in  the  assumed  character  of  Anne's  hus- 
band. But  the  result  of  putting  the  deception  in 
practice  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  little  em- 
barrassing at  first.  Here  was  the  waiter  de- 
scribing Miss  Silvester  as  his  "good  lady;"  and 
leaving  it  (most  naturally  and  properly)  to  the 
"good  lady's"  husband  to  knock  at  her  bedroom 
door,  and  tell  her  that  he  was  there.  In  despair 
of  knowing  what  else  to  do  at  the  moment,  Ar- 
nold asked  for  the  landlady,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  on  arriving  at  the  inn. 

"  The  landleddy's  just  tottin'  up  the  ledgers  o' 
the  hottle  in  her  ain  room,"  answered  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs. "  She'll  be  here  anon — the  wearyful 
woman  ! — speerin'  who  ye  are  and  what  ye  are, 
and  takin'  a'  the  business  o'  the  hoose  on  her  ain 
pair  o'  shouthers."  He  dropped  the  subject  of 
the  landlady,  and  put  in  a  plea  for  himself.  "  I 


!  ha'  lookit  after  a'  the  leddy's  little  comforts,  Sir," 
he  whispered.  "  Trust  in  me !  trust  in  me !" 

Arnold's  attention  was  absorbed  in  the  very 
serious  difficulty  of  announcing  his  arrival  to 
Anne.  " How  am  I  to  get  her  out?"  he  said  to 
himself,  with  a  look  of  perplexity  directed  at  the 
bedroom  door. 

He  had  spoken  loud  enough  for  the  waiter 
i  to  hear  him.  Arnold's  look  of  perplexity  was 
instantly  reflected  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs. 
The  head-waiter  at  Craig  Fernie  possessed  an 
immense  experience  of  the  manners  and  customs 
of  newly-married  people  on  their  honey-moon  trip. 
He  had  been  a  second  father  (with  excellent  pe- 
cuniary results)  to  innumerable  brides  and  bride- 
grooms^ He  knew  young  married  couples  in  all 
their  varieties  : — The  couples  who  try  to  behave 
as  if  they  had  been  married  for  many  years ;  the 
couples  who  attempt  no  concealment,  and  take 
advice  from  competent  authorities  about  them. 
The  couples  who  are  bashfully  talkative  before 
third  persons ;  the  couples  who  are  bashfully  si- 
lent under  similar  circumstances.  The  couples 
who  don't  know  what  to  do ;  the  couples  who 
wish  it  was  over ;  the  couples  who  must  never  be 
intruded  upon  without  careful  preliminary  knock- 
ing at  the  door;  the  couples  who  can  eat  and 
drink  in  the  intervals  of  "bliss,"  and  the  other 
couples  who  can't.  But  the  bridegroom  who 
stood  helpless  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  the 
bride  who  remained  locked  in  on  the  other,  were 
new  varieties  of  the  nuptial  species,  even  in  the 
vast  experience  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  himself. 

"Hoo  are  ye  to  get  her  oot?"  he  repeated. 
"  I'll  show  ye  hoo !"  He  advanced  as  rapidly  as 
his  gouty  feet  would  let  him,  and  knocked  at  the 
bedroom  door.  "  Eh,  my  leddy  !  here  he  is  in 
flesh  and  bluid.  Mercy  preserve  us  !  do  ye  lock 
the  door  of  the  nuptial  chamber  in  your  hus- 
band's face  ?" 

At  that  unanswerable  appeal  the  lock  was 
heard  turning  in  the  door.  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
winked  at  Arnold  with  his  one  available  eye.  and 
laid  his  forefinger  knowingly  along  his  enormous 
nose.  "I'm  away  before  she  falls  into  your 
arms !  Rely  on  it  I'll  no  come  in  again  without 
knocking  first!" 

He  left  Arnold  alone  in  the  room.  The  bed- 
room door  opened  slowly  by  a  few  inches  at  a 
time.  Anne's  voice  was  just  audible,  speaking 
cautiously  behind  it. 

"  Is  that  you,  Geoffrey?" 

Arnold's  heart  began  to  beat  fast,  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  disclosure  which  was  now  close  at 
hand.  He  knew  neither  what  to  say  or  do — he 
remained  silent. 

Anne  repeated  the  question  in  louder  tones : 

"Is  that  you?" 

There  was  the  certain  prospect  of  alarming 
her,  if  some  reply  was  not  given.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.  Come  what  come  might,  Ar- 
nold answered,  in  a  whisper : 

"Yes." 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open.  Anne  Sil- 
vester appeared  on  the  threshold,  confronting 
him. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth!!!"  she  exclaimed,  stand- 
ing petrified  with  astonishment. 

For  a  moment  more  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Anne  advanced  one  step  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  put  the  next  inevitable  question,  with  an  in- 
stantaneous change  from  surprise  to  suspicion. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"EH,  MY  LKDDY!   HERE  HE  is  IN  FLESH  AND  BLTJID." 


"  What  do  you  waut  here  ?'' 

Geoffrey's  letter  represented  the  only  possible 
excuse  for  Arnold's  appearance  in  that  place, 
and  at  that  time.  » 

"I  have  got  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said — and 
offered  it  to  her. 

She  was  instantly  on  her  guard.  They  were 
little  better  than  strangers  to  each  other,  as  Ar- 
nold had  said.  A  sickening  presentiment  of 
some  treachery  on  Geoffrey's  part  struck  cold  to 
her  heart.  She  refused  to  take  the  letter. 

"I  expect  no  letter,"  she  said.  "Who  told 
you  I  was  here?"  She  put  the  question,  not 
only  with  a  tone  of  suspicion,  but  with  a  look 
of  contempt.  The  look  was  not  an  easy  one  for 
a  man  to  bear.  It  required  a  momentary  ex- 
ertion of  self-control  on  Arnold's  part,  before  he 
could  trust  himself  to  answer  with  due  consider- 
ation for  her.  "  Is  there  a  watch  set  on  my  ac- 
tions?" she  went  on,  with  rising  anger.  "And 
are  ynu  the  spy?" 

"  You  haven't  known  me  very  long,  Miss  Sil- 
vester," Arnold  answered,  quietly.  "But  you 
ought  to  know  me  better  than  to  say  that.  I  am 
the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  Geoffrey." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  following  his  example, 
and  of  speaking  of  Geoffrey  by  his  Christian 
name,  on  her  side.  But  she  checked  herself, 
before  the  word  had  passed  her  lips. 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Delamayn?"  she  asked, 
coldly. 

"Yes." 

"  What  occasion  have  I  for  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Delamayn  ?" 

She  was  determined  to  acknowledge  nothing — 
she  kept  him  obstinately  at  arm's-length.  Ar- 


nold did,  as  a  matter  of  instinct,  what  a  man  of 
larger  experience  would  have  done,  as  a  matter 
of  calculation — he  closed  with  her  boldly,  then 
and  there. 

"  Miss  Silvester !  it's  no  use  beating  about  the 
bush.  If  you  won't  take  the  letter,  you  force 
me  to  speak  out.  I  am  here  on  a  very  unpleas- 
ant errand.  I  begin  to  wish,  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  I  had  never  undertaken  it." 

A  quick  spasm  of  pain  passed  across  her  face. 
She  was  beginning,  dimly  beginning,  to  under- 
stand him.  He  hesitated.  His  generous  nature 
shrank  from  hurting  her. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

"Try  not  to  be  angry  with  me,  Miss  Silvester. 
Geoffrey  and  I  are  old  friends.  Geoffrey  knows 
he  can  trust  me — " 

"  Trust  you  ?"  she  interposed.     "  Stop !" 

Arnold  waited.  She  went  on,  speaking  to  her- 
self, not  to  him. 

"Wlien  I  was  in  the  other  room  I  asked  if 
Geoffrey  was  there.  And  this  man  answered 
for  him."  She  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of 
horror. 

"  Has  he  told  you — " 

"For  God's  sake,  read  his  letter!" 

She  violently  pushed  back  the  hand  with  which 
Arnold  once  more  offered  the  letter.  "  You  don't 
look  at  me !  He  has  told  yon !" 

"Read  his  letter,"  persisted  Arnold.  "In 
justice  to  him,  if  you  won't  in  justice  to  me." 

The  situation  was  too  painful  to  be  endured. 
Arnold  looked  at  her,  this  time,  with  a  man's 
resolution  in  his  eyes — spoke  to  her,  this  time, 
with  a  man's  resolution  in  his  voice.  Sha  took 
the  letter. 


52 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  she  said,  with  a 
sudden  humiliation  of  tone  and  manner,  inex- 
pressibly shocking,  inexpressibly  pitiable  to  see. 
"  I  understand  my  position  at  last.  I  am  a  wo- 
man doubly  betrayed.  Please  to  excuse  what  I 
said  to ~you  just  now,  when  I  supposed  myself  to 
have  some  claim  on  your  respect.  Perhaps  you 
will  grant  me  your  pity  ?  I  can  ask  for  nothing 
more. " 

Arnold  was  silent.  Words  were  useless  in  the 
face  of  such  utter  self-abandonment  as  this.  Any 
man  living — even  Geoffrey  himself — must  have 
felt  for  her  at  that  moment. 

She  looked  "for  the  first  time  at  the  letter. 
She  opened  it  on  the  wrong  side.  "My  own 
letter!"  she  said  to  herself.  "In  the  hands  of 
another  man !" 

"Look  at  the  last  page,"  said  Arnold. 

She  turned  to  the  last  page,  and  read  the  hur- 
ried penciled  lines.  "Villain!  villain!  villain!" 
At  the  third  repetition  of  the  word,  she  crushed 
the  letter  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  flung  it 
from  her  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The 
instant  after,  the  fire  that  had  flamed  up  in  her 
died  out.  Feebly  and  slowly  she  reached  out 
her  hand  to  the  nearest  chair,  and  sat  down  in  it 
with  her  back  to  Arnold.  "  He  has  deserted 
me!"  was  all  she  said.  The  words  fell  low 
and  quiet  on  the  silence :  they  were  the  utter- 
ance of  an  immeasurable  despair. 

"You  are  wrong !"  exclaimed  Arnold.  " In- 
deed, indeed  you  are  wrong !  It's  no  excuse — 
it's  the  truth.  I  was  present  when  the  message 
came  about  his  father." 

She  never  heeded  him,  and  never  moved.  She 
only  repeated  the  words : 

"He  has  deserted  me!" 

' '  Don't  take  it  in  that  way ! "  pleaded  Arnold — 
"  pray  don't !  It's  dreadful  to  hear  you ;  it  is  in- 
deed. I  am  sure  he  has  not  deserted  you." 
There  was  no  answer ;  no  sign  that  she  heard 
him ;  she  sat  there,  struck  to  stone.  It  was 
impossible  to  call  the  landlady  in  at  such  a  mo- 
ment as  this.  In  despair  of  knowing  how  else 
to  rouse  her,  Arnold  drew  a  chair  to  her  side, 
and  patted  her  timidly  on  the  shoulder.  ' '  Come ! " 
he  said,  in  his  single-hearted,  boyish  way.  "  Cheer 
up  a  little!" 

She  slowly  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  dull  surprise. 

"  Didn't  you  say  he  had  told  you  every  thing  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Don't  you  despise  a  woman  like  me  ?" 

Arnold's  heart  went  back,  at  that  dreadful 
question,  to  the  one  woman  who  was  eternally 
sacred  to  him — to  the  woman  from  whose  bosom 
he  had  drawn  the  breath  of  life. 

"  Does  the  man  live,"  he  said,  "who  can  think 
of  his  mother — and  despise  women  ?" 

That  answer  set  the  prisoned  misery  in  her 
free.  She  gave  him  her  hand  —  she  faintly 
thanked  him.  The  merciful  tears  came  to  her 
at  last. 

Arnold  rose,  and  turned  away  to  the  window 
in  despair.  "I  mean  well,"  he  said.  "And 
yet  I  only  distress  her !" 

She  heard  him,  and  struggled  to  compose  her- 
self. "No,"  she  answered,  "you  comfort  me. 
Don't  mind  my  crying — I'm  the  better  for  it." 
She  looked  round  at  him  gratefully.  "I  won't 
distress  you,  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  ought  to  thank 


you — and  I  do.  Come  back,  or  I  shall  think  you 
are  angry  with  me."  Arnold  went  back  to  her. 
She  gave  him  her  hand  once  more.  "One 
doesn't  understand  people  all  at  once,"  she  said, 
simply.  "  I  thought  you  were  like  other  men — 
I  didn't  know  till  to-day  how  kind  you  could  be. 
Did  you  walk  here  ?"  she  added,  suddenly,  with 
an  effort  to  change  the  subject.  "  Are  you 
tired?  I  have  not  been  kindly  received  at  this 
place — but  I'm  sure  I  may  offer  you  whatever 
the  inn  affords." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  for  her — it  was 
impossible  not  to  be  interested  in  her.  Arnold's 
honest  longing  to  help  her  expressed  itself  a  little 
too  openly  when  he  spoke  next.  ' '  All  I  want, 
Miss  Silvester,  is  to  be  of  some  sen-ice  to  you,  if 
I  can,"  he  said.  "Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do 
to  make  your  position  here  more  comfortable  ? 
You  will  stay  at  this  place,  won't  you  ?  Geoffrey 
wishes  it." 

She  shuddered,  and  looked  away.  "Yes! 
yes!"  she  answered,  hurriedly. 

"You  will  hear  from  Geoffrey,"  Arnold  went 
on,  ' '  to-morrow  or  next  day.  I  know  he  means 
to  write." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  speak  of  him  any 
more!"  she  cried  out.  "How  do  you  think  I 
can  look  you  in  the  face — "  Her  cheeks  flushed 
deep,  and*  her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  a  moment- 
ary firmness.  ' '  Mind  this !  I  am  his  wife,  if 
promises  can  make  me  his  wife !  He  has  pledged 
his  word  to  me  by  all  that  is  sacred!"  She 
checked  herself  impatiently.  "  What  am  I  say- 
ing ?  What  interest  can  you  have  in  this  miser- 
able state  of  things  ?  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it !  I 
have  something  else  to  say  to  you.  Let  us  go 
back  to  my  troubles  here.  Did  you  see  the  land- 
lady when  you  came  in  ?" 

"  No.     I  only  saw  the  waiter." 

"The  laifdlady  has  made  some  absurd  diffi- 
culty about  letting  me  have  these  rooms  because 
I  came  here  alone. " 

"  She  won't  make  any  difficulty  now,"  said 
Arnold.  "I  have  settled  that." 

"You!" 

Arnold  smiled.  After  what  had  passed,  it  was 
an  indescribable  relief  to  him  to  see  the  humor- 
ous side  of  his  own  position  at  the  inn. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered.  "When  I  asked 
for  the  lady  who  had  arrived  here  alone  this  aft- 
ernoon— " 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  told,  in  your  interests,  to  ask  for  her 
as  my  wife." 

Anne  looked  at  him — in  alarm  as  well  as  in 
surprise. 

"  You  asked  forme  as  your  wife?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  I  haven't  done  wrong — have  1?  As 
I  understood  it,  there  was  no  alternative.  Geof- 
frey told  me  you  had  settled  with  him  to  present 
yourself  here  as  a  married  lady,  whose  husband 
was  coming  to  join  her. " 

"I  thought  of  him  when  I  said  that.  I  never 
thought  of  you." 

"  Natural  enough.  Still,  it  comes  to  the  same 
thing  (doesn't  it  ?)  with  the  people  of  this  house." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  will  try  and  explain  myself  a  little  better. 
Geoffrey  said  your  position  here  depended  on  my 
asking  for  you  at  the  door  (as  he  would  have 
asked  for  you  if  he  had  come)  in  -the  character 
of  your  husband. " 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


53 


"He  had  no  right  to  say  that." 

"No  right?  After  what  you  have  told  me 
of  the  landlady,  just  think  what  might  have  hap- 
pened if  he  had  not  said  it !  I  haven't  had  much 
experience  myself  of  these  things.  But — allow 
me  to  ask — wouldn't  it  have  been  a  little  awk- 
ward (at  my  age)  if  I  had  come  here  and  in- 
quired for  you  as  a  friend  ?  Don't  you  think,  in 
that  case,  the  landlady  might  have  made  some 
additional  difficulty  about  letting  you  have  the 
rooms  ?" 

It  was  beyond  dispute  that  the  landlady  would 
have  refused  to  let  the  rooms  at  all.  It  was 
equally  plain  that  the  deception  which  Arnold 
had  practiced  on  the  people  of  the  inn  was  a  de- 
ception which  Anne  had  herself  rendered  neces- 
sary, in  her  own  interests.  She  was  not  to  blame ; 
it  was  clearly  impossible  for  her  to  have  foreseen 
such  an  event  as  Geoffrey's  departure  for  Lon- 
don. Still,  she  felt  an  uneasy  sense  of  responsi- 
bility— a  vague  dread  of  what  might  happen  next. 
She  sat  nervously  twisting  her  handkerchief  in 
her  lap,  and  made  no  answer. 

"Don't  suppose  I  object  to  this  little  strata- 
gem," Arnold  went  on.  "I  am  serving  my  old 
friend,  and  I  am  helping  the  lady  who  is  soon  to 
be  his  wife." 

Anne  rose  abruptly  to  her  feet,  and  amazed  him 
by  a  very  unexpected  question. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth," she  said,  "forgive  me  the 
rudeness  of  something  I  am  about  to  say  to  you. 
When  are  you  going  away  ?" 

Arnold  burst  out  laughing. 

"  When  I  am  quite  sure  I  can  do  nothing  more 
to  assist  you,"  he  answered. 

"Pray  don't  think  of  me  any  longer." 

"  In  your  situation !  who  else  am  I  to  think 
of?" 

Anne  laid  her  hand  earnestly  on  his  arm,  and 
answered : 

"Blanche!" 

"  Blanche  ?"  repeated  Arnold,  utterly  at  a  loss 
to  understand  her. 

' '  Yes — Blanche.  She  found  time  to  tell  me 
what  had  passed  between  you  this  morning  be- 
fore I  left  Windygates.  I  know  you  have  made 
her  an  offer.  I  know  you  are  engaged  to  be 
married  to  her." 

Arnold  was  delighted  to  hear  it.  He  had  been 
merely  unwilling  to  leave  her  thus  far.  He  was 
absolutely  determined  to  stay  with  her  now. 

"  Don't  expect  me  to  go  after  that !"  he  said. 
"Come«and  sit  down  again,  and  let's  talk  about 
Blanche. " 

Anne  declined  impatiently,  by  a  gesture.  Ar- 
nold was  too  deeply  interested  in  the  new  topic 
to  take  any  notice  of  it. 

"You  know  all  about  her  habits  and  her 
tastes,''  he  went  on,  "and  what  she  likes,  and 
what  she  dislikes.  It's  most  important  that  I 
should  talk  to  you  about  her.  When  we  are 
husband  and  wife,  Blanche  is  to  have  all  her  own 
way  in  every  thing.  That's  my  idea  of  the  Whole 
Duty  of  Man — when  Man  is  married.  You  are 
still  standing  ?  Let  me  give  you  a  chair. " 

It  was  cruel — under  other  circumstances  it 
would  have  been  impossible — to  disappoint  him. 
But  the  vague  fear  of  consequences  which  had 
taken  possession  of  Anne  was  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  She  had  no  clear  conception  of  the  risk  (and 
it  is  to  be  added,  injustice  to  Geoffrey,  that  he  had 
no  clear  conception  of  the  risk)  on  which  Arnold 


had  unconsciously  ventured,  in  undertaking  his 
errand  to  the  inn.  Neither  of  them  had  any 
adequate  idea  (few  people  have)  of  the  infamous 
absence  of  all  needful  warning,  of  all  decent  pre- 
caution and  restraint,  which  makes  the  marriage 
law  of  Scotland  a  trap  to  catch  unmarried  men 
and  women,  to  this  day.  But,  while  Geof- 
frey's mind  was  incapable  of  looking  beyond  the 
present  emergency,  Anne's  finer  intelligence  told 
her  that  a  country  which  offered  such  facilities 
for  private  marriage  as  the  facilities  of  which  she 
had  proposed  to  take  advantage  in  her  own  case, 
|  was  not  a  country  in  which  a  man  could  act  as 
|  Arnold  had  acted,  without  danger  of  some  serious 
embarrassment  following  as  the  possible  result.' 
With  this  motive  to  animate  her,  she  resolutely 
declined  to  take  the  offered  chair,  or  to  enter 
into  the  proposed  conversation. 

"Whatever  we  have  to  say  about  Blanche, 
Mr.  Brinkworth,  must  be  said  at  some  fitter 
time.  I  beg  you  will  leave  me. " 

"Leave  you!" 

"  Yes.  Leave  me  to  the  solitude  that  is  best 
for  me,  and  to  the  sorrow  that  I  have  deserved. 
Thank  you — and  good-by." 

Arnold  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  dis- 
appointment and  surprise. 

"  If  I  must  go,  I  must,"  he  said.  "  But  why 
are  you  in  such  a  hurry  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  call  me  your  wife  again 
before  the  people  of  this  inn." 

"Is  that  all?  What  on  earth  are  you  afraid 
of?" 

She  was  unable  fully  to  realize  her  own  appre- 
hensions. She  was  doubly  unable  to  express 
them  in  words.  In  her  anxiety  to  produce  some 
reason  which  might  prevail  on  him  to  go,  she 
drifted  back  into  that  very  conversation  about 
Blanche  into  which  she  had  declined  to  enter 
but  the  moment  before. 

"I  have  reasons  for  being  afraid,"  she  said. 
"One  that  I  can't  give;  and  one  that  I  can. 
Suppose  Blanche  heard  of  what  you  have  done? 
The  longer  you  stay  here — the  more  people  you 
see — the  more  chance  there  is  that  she  might 
hear  of  it. " 

"  And  what  if  she  did  ?"  asked  Arnold,  in  his 
own  straightforward  way.  "Do  you  think  she 
would  be  angry  with  me  for  making  myself  use- 
ful to  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Anne,  sharply,  "if  she  was 
jealous  of  me." 

Arnold's  unlimited  belief  in  Blanche  expressed 
itself,  without  the  slightest  compromise,  in  two 
words : 

"  That's  impossible !" 

Anxious  as  she  was,  miserable  as  she  was,  a 
faint  smile  flitted  over  Anne's  face. 

"  Sir  Patrick  would  tell  you,  Mr.  Brinkworth, 

that  nothing  is  impossible  where  women  are  con- 

\  cerned. "     She  dropped  her  momentary  lightness 

[  of  tone,  and  went  on  as  earnestly  as  ever.     ' '  Yon 

;  can't  put  yourself  in  Blanche's  place — I  can. 

Once  more,  I  beg  you  to  go.     I  don't  like  your 

coming  here,  in  this  way!     I  don't  like  it  at 

all!" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  take  leave.  At  the 
same  moment  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door 
of  the  room. 

Anne  sank  into  the  chair  at  her  side,  and  ut- 
tered a  faint  cry  of  alarm.  Arnold,  perfectly 
impenetrable  to  all  sense  of  his  position,  asked 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


what  there  was  to  frighten  her — and  answered 
the  knock  in  the  two  customary  words : 
"Come  in!" 


CHAPTER  THE  TENTH. 

ME.   BISHOPRIGGS. 

THE  knock  at  the  door  was  repeated — a  loud- 
er knock  than  before. 

"Are  you  deaf?"  shouted  Arnold. 

The  door  opened,  little  by  little,  an  inch  at  a 
time.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  appeared  mysteriously, 
with  the  cloth  for  dinner  over  his  arm,  and  with 
his  second  in  command  behind  him,  bearing 
"  the  furnishing  of  the  table"  (as  it  was  called 
at  Craig  Fernie)  on  a  tray. 

"What  the  deuce  were  you  waiting  for?" 
.  asked  Arnold.  "  I  told  you  to  come  in." 

"And  /  tauld  you,"  answered  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs, "that  I  wadna  come  in  without  knocking 
first.  Eh,  man!"  he  went  on,  dismissing  his 
second  in  command,  and  laying  the  cloth  with- 
his  own  venerable  hands,  "d'ye  think  I've  lived 
in  this  hottle  in  blinded  eegnorance  of  hoo  young 
married  couples  pass  the  time  when  they're  left 
to  themselves?  Twa  knocks  at  the  door — and 
an  unco  trouble  in  opening  it,  after  that — is  joost 
the  least  ye  can  do  for  them!  Whar'  do  ye 
think,  noe,  I'll  set  the  places  for  you  and  your 
ledd^r  there  ?" 

Anne  walked  away  to  the  window,  in  undis- 
guised disgust.  Arnold  found  Mr.  Bishopriggs  to 
be  quite  irresistible.  He  answered,  humoring 
the  joke, 

"One  at  the  top  and  one  at  the  bottom  of 
the  table,  I  suppose  ?" 

"One  at  tap  and  one  at  bottom?"  repeated 
Mr.  Bishopriggs,  in  high  disdain.  "De'il  a  bit 
of  it!  Baith  yer  chairs  as  close  together  as 
chairs  can  be.  Hech !  hech ! — haven't  I  caught 
'em,  after  goodness  knows  hoo  many  preleemina- 
ry  knocks  at  the  door,  dining  on  their  husbands' 
knees,  and  steemulating  a  man's  appetite  by  feed- 
ing him  at  the  fork's  end  like  a  child?  Eh!" 
sighed  the  sage  of  Craig  Fernie,  "  it's  a  short 
life  wi'  that  nuptial  business,  and  a  merry  one ! 
A  month  for  yer  billin'  and  cooin' ;  and  a'  the 
rest  o'  yer  days  for  wondering  ye  were  ever 
such  a  fule,  and  wishing  it  was  a'  to  be  done 
ower  again. — Yell  be  for  a  bottle  o'  sherry  wine, 
nae  doot  ?  and  a  drap  toddy  afterwards,  to  do  yer 
digestin'  on  ?" 

Arnold  nodded — and  then,  in  obedience  to  a 
signal  from  Anne,  joined  her  at  the  window. 
Mr.  Bishopriggs  looked  after  them  attentively — 
observed  that  they  were  talking  in  whispers — and 
approved  of  that  proceeding,  as  representing  an- 
other of  the  established  customs  of  young  mar- 
ried couples  at  inns,  in  the  presence  of  third  per- 
sons appointed  to  wait  on  them. 

"Ay!  ay!"  he  said,  looking  over  his  shoulder 
at  Arnold,  "  gae  to  your  deerie !  gae  to  your  dee- 
rie  !  and  leave  a'  the  solid  business  o'  life  to  Me. 
Ye've  Screepture  warrant  for  it.  A  man  maun 
leave  fether  and  mother  (I'm  yer  fether),  and 
cleave  to  his  wife.  My  certie!  'cleave'  is  a 
strong  word — there's  nne  sort  o'  doot  aboot  it, 
when  it  comes  to  'cleaving!'"  He  wagged  his 
head  thoughtfully,  and  walked  to  the  side-table 
in  a  corner,  to  cut  the  bread. 

As  he  took  up  the  knife,  his  one  wary  eye  de- 


tected a  morsel  of  crumpled  paper,  lying  lost  be- 
tween the  table  and  the  wall.  It  was  the  letter 
from  Geoffrey,  which  Anne  had  flung  from  her, 
in  the  first  indignation  of  reading  it — and  which 
neither  she  nor  Arnold  had  thought  of  since. 

"What's  that  I  see  yonder?"  muttered  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  under  his  breath.  "  Mail-  litter  in 
the  room,  after  I've  doosted  and  tidied  it  wi'  my 
ain  hands!'' 

He  picked  up  the  crumpled  paper,  and  partly 
opened  it.  "Eh!  what's  here?  Writing  on  it 
in  ink  ?  and  writing  on  it  in  pencil  ?  Who  may 
this  belong  to?"  He  looked  round  cautiously 
toward  Arnold  and  Anne.  They  were  both  still 
talking  in  whispers,  and  both  standing  with  their 
backs  to  him,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "Here 
it  is,  clean  forgotten  and  dune  with !"  thought 
Mr.  Bishopriggs.  "  Noo  what  would  a  fule  do, 
if  he  fund  this  ?  A  fule  wad  .light  his  pipe  wi' 
it,  and  then  wonder  whether  he  wadna  ha'  dune 
better  to  read  it  first.  And  what  wad  a  wise 
man  do,  in  a  seemilar  position  ?"  He  practical- 
ly answered  that  question  by  putting  the  letter 
into  his  pocket.  It  might  be  worth  keeping,  or 
it  might  not ;  five  minutes'  private  examination 
of  it  would  decide  the  alternative,  at  the  first 
convenient  opportunity.  "Am  gaun'  to  breeng 
the  dinner  in !"  he  called  out  to  Arnold.  "And, 
mind  ye,  there's  nae  knocking  at  the  door  pos- 
sible, when  I've  got  the  tray  in  baith  my  hands, 
and,  mairs  the  pity,  the  gout  in  baith  my  feet." 
With  that  friendly  warning,  Mr.  Bishopriggs  went 
his  way  to  the  regions  of  the  kitchen. 

Arnold  continued  his  conversation  with  Anne, 
in  terms  which  showed  that  the  question  of  his 
leaving  the  inn  had  been  the  question  once  more 
discussed  between  them  while  tl^gy  were  standing 
at  the  window. 

"  You  see  we  can't  help  it,"  he  said.  "  The 
waiter  has  gone  to  bring  the  dinner  in.  What 
will  they  think  in  the  house,  if  I  go  away  already, 
and  leave  '  my  wife'  to  dine  alone  ?" 

It  was  so  plainly  necessary  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances for  the  present,  that  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  said.  Arnold  was  committing  a  se- 
rious imprudence — and  yet,  on  this  occasion, 
Arnold  was  right.  Anne's  annoyance  at  feeling 
that  conclusion  forced  on  her  produced  the  first 
betrayal  of  impatience  which  she  had  shown  yet.  . 
She  left  Arnold  at  the  window,  and  flung  herself 
on  the  sofa.  "A  curse  seems  to  follow  me!" 
she  thought,  bitterly.  "This  will  end  ill — and 
I  shall  be  answerable  for  it!" 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Bishopriggs  had  found 
the  dinner  in  the  kitchen,  ready,  and  waiting  for 
him.  Instead  of  at  once  taking  the  tray  on  which 
it  was  placed  into  the  sitting-room,  he  conveyed 
it  privately  into  his  own  pantry,  and  shut  the 
door. 

"  Lie  ye  there,  my  freend,  till  the  spare  mo- 
ment comes — and  I'll  look  at  ye  again,"  he  said, 
putting  the  letter  away  carefully  in  the  dresser- 
drawer.  "  Noo  aboot  the  dinner  o'  they  twa 
turtle-doves  in  the  parlor?"  he  continued,  di- 
recting his  attention  to  the  dinner-tray.  "I 
maun  joost  see  that  the  cook's  dune  her  duty — 
the  creatures  are  no'  capable  o'  decidin'  that 
knotty  point  for  their  ain  selves. "  He  took  off 
one  of  the  covers,  and  picked  bits,  here  and 
there,  out  of  the  dish  with  the  fork.  "  Eh !  eh ! 
the  collops  are  no'  that  bad !"  He  took  off  an- 
other cover,  and  shook  his  head  in  solemn  doubt. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


55 


"Here's  the  green  meat.  I  doot  green  meat's 
windy  diet  for  a  man  at  my  time  o'  life!"  He 
put  the  cover  on  again,  and  tried  the  next  dish. 
"  The  fesh  ?  What  the  de'il  does  the  woman  fry 
the  trout  for?  Boil  it  next  time,  ye  betch,  wi' 
a  pinch  o'  saut  and  a  spunefu'  o'  vinegar. "  He 
drew  the  cork  from  a  bottle  of  sherry,  and  de- 
canted the  wine.  "The  sherry  wine?  he  said, 
in  tones  of  deep  feeling,  holding  the  decanter  up 
to  the  light.  "  Hoo  do  I  know  but  what  it  may 
be  corkit  ?  I  maun  taste  and  try.  It's  o*n  my 
conscience,  as  an  honest  man,  to  taste  and  try. " 
He  forthwith  relieved  his  conscience — copiously. 
There  was  a  vacant  space,  of  no  inconsiderable 
dimensions,  left  in  the  decanter.  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs  gravely  filled  it  up  from  the  water-bottle. 
"  Eh !  it's  joost  addin*  ten  years  to  the  age  o'  the 
wine.  'The  turtle-doves  will  be  nane  the  waur — 
and  I  mysel'  am  a  glass  o'  sherry  the  better. 
Praise  Providence  for  a'  its  maircies !"  Having 
relieved  himself  of  that  devout  aspiration,  he  took 
up  the  tray  again,  and  decided  on  letting  the 
turtle-doves  have  their  dinner. 

The  conversation  in  the  parlor  (dropped  for 
the  moment)  had  been  renewed,  in  the  absence 
of  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  Too  restless  to  remain 
long  in  one  place,  Anne  had  risen  again  from 
the  sofa,  and  had  rejoined  Arnold  at  the  win- 
dow. 

"Where  do  your  friends  at  Lady  Lundie's 
believe  you  to  be  now  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"I  am  believed,"  replied  Arnold,  "to  be 
meeting  my  tenants,  and  taking  possession  of 
my  estate." 

"  How  are  you  to  get  to  your  estate  to-night?" 

"By  railway,  I  suppose.  By-the-by,  what 
excuse  am  I  to  make  for  going  away  after  din- 
ner ?  We  are  sure  to  have  the  landlady  in  here 
before  long.  What  will  she  say  to  my  going  off 
by  myself  to  the  train,  and  leaving  'my  wife' 
behind  me?" 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth !  that  joke — if  it  is  a  joke — 
is  worn  out !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Arnold. 

"You  may  leave  your  excuse  to  me,  "pursued 
Anne.  "Do  you  go  by  the  up  train,  or  the 
down  ?" 

"By  the  up  train." 

The  door  opened  suddenly;  and  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs appeared  with  the  dinner.  Anne  nervous- 
ly separated  herself  from  Arnold.  The  one  avail- 
able eye  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  followed  her  re- 
proachfully, as  he  put  the  dishes  on  the  table. 

"  I  warned  ye  baith,  it  was  a  clean  impossi- 
bility to  knock  at  the  door  this  time.  Don't 
blame  me,  young  madam — don't  blame  me  /" 

"  Where  will  you  sit  ?"  asked  Arnold,  by  way 
of  diverting  Anne's  attention  from  the  familiar- 
ities of  Father  Bishopriggs. 

"Any  where!"  she  answered,  impatiently; 
snatching  up  a  chair,  and  placing  it  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  table. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  politely,  but  firmly,  put  the 
chair  back  again  in  its  place. 

' '  Lord's  sake !  what  are  ye  doin'  ?  It's  clean 
contrary  to  a'  the  laws  and  customs  o'  the  hon- 
ey-mune,  to  sit  as  far  away  from  your  husband 
as  that!" 

He  waved  his  persuasive  napkin  to  one  of  the 
two  chairs  placed  close  together  at  the  table. 
Arnold  interfered  once  more,  and  prevented  an- 
other outbreak  of  impatience  from  Anne. 


"What  does  it  matter?"  he  said.  "Let  the 
man  have  his  wav." 

"  Get  it  over  as  soon  as  you  can,"  she  return- 
ed. "I can't,  and  won't,  bear  it  much  longer." 

They  took  their  places  at  the  table,  with  Father 
Bishopriggs  behind  them,  in  the  mixed  character 
of  major  domo  and  guardian  angel. 

"  Here's  the  trout !"  he  cried,  taking  the  cov- 
er off  with  a  flourish.  "  Half  an  hour  since,  he 
was  loupin'  in  the  water.  There  he  lies  noo, 
fried  in  the  dish.  An  emblem  o'  human  life  for 
ye !  When  ye  can  spare  any  leisure  time  from 
yer  twa  selves,  meditate  on  that." 

Arnold  took  up  the  spoon,  to  give  Anne  one 
of  the  trout.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  clapped  the  cov- 
er on  the  dish  again,  with  a  countenance  express- 
ive of  devout  horror. 

"Is  there  naebody  gann'  to  say  grace?"  he 
asked. 

"Come!  come!"  said  Arnold.  "The  fish  is 
getting  cold. " 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  piously  closed  his  available 
eye,  and  held  the  cover  firmly  on  the  dish. 
"  For  what  ye 're  gaun'  to  receive,  may  ye  baith 
be  truly  thankful !"  He  opened  his  available  eye, 
and  whipped  the  cover  oft'  again.  "My  con- 
science is  easy  noo.  Fall  to !  Fall  to !" 

"Send  him  away !"  said  Anne.  " His  famil- 
iarity is  beyond  all  endurance." 

"You  needn't  wait,"  said  Arnold. 

"Eh!  but  I'm  here  to  wait,"  objected  Mr. 
Bishopriggs.  "What's  the  use  o'  my  gaun' 
away,  when  ye'll  want  me  anon  to  change  the 
plates  for  ye?"  He  considered  for  a  moment 
(privately  consulting  his  experience) ;  and  ar- 
rived at  a  satisfactory  conclusion  as  to  Arnold's 
motive  for  wanting  to  get  rid  of  him.  "Tak1 
her  on  yer  knee,"  he  whispered  in  Arnold's  ear, 
"as  soon  as  ye  like!  Feed  him  at  the  fork's 
end,"  he  added  to  Anne,  "whenever  ye  please! 
I'll  think  of  something  else,  and  look  out  at  the 
proaspect."  He  winked — and  went  to  the  window. 

"Come!  come!"  said  Arnold  to  Anne. 
"There's  a  comic  side  to  all  this.  Try  and  see 
it  as  I  do." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  returned  from  the  window, 
and  announced  the  appearance  of  a  new  element 
of  embarrassment  in  the  situation  at  the  inn. 

"My  certie!"  he  said,  "it's  weel  ye  cam' 
when  ye  did.  It's  ill  getting  to  this  bottle  in  a 
storm. " 

Anne  started,  and  looked  round  at  him.  "  A 
storm  coming!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Eh!  ye're  well  hoosed  here — ye  needn't 
mind  it.  There's  the  cloud  down  the  valley," 
he  added,  pointing  out  of  the  window,  "coming 
up  one  way,  when  the  wind's  blawing  the  other. 
The  storm's  brewing,  my  leddyj  when  ye  see 
that!" 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  As 
Arnold  had  predicted,  the  landlady  made  her 
appearance  on  the  scene. 

"I  ha'  just  lookit  in,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare,  addressing  herself  exclusively  to  Arnold, 
'*to  see  ye've  got  what  ye  want." 

"Oh!  you  are  the 'landlady  ?  Very  nice, 
ma'am — very  nice." 

Mistress  Inchbare  had  her  own  private  motive 
for  entering  the  room,  and  came  to  it  without 
further  preface. 

"Yell  excuse  me,  Sir,"  she  proceeded.  "I 
wasna  in  the  way  when  ye  cam'  here,  or  I  suld 


56 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


'FOR  WHAT  YE'RE  GAUS'  TO  RECEIVE,  MAY  YE  BAITH  BE  TRULY  THANKFUL!" 


ha'  made  bauld  to  ask  ye  the  question  which  I 
maun  e'en  ask  noo.  Am  I  to  understand  that 
ye  hire  these  rooms  for  yersel',  and  this  leddy 
here — yer  wife  ?" 

Anne  raised  her  head  to  speak.  Arnold 
pressed  her  hand  warningly,  under  the  table, 
and  silenced  her. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said.  "  I  take  the  rooms  for 
myself,  and  this  lady  here — my  wife!" 

Anne  made  a  second  attempt  to  speak. 

"This  gentleman — "  she  began. 

Arnold  stopped  her  for  the  second  time. 

"This  gentleman?"  repeated  Mrs.  Inchbare, 
with  a  broad  stare  of  surprise.  "  I'm  only  a  puir 
woman,  my  leddy — d'ye  mean  yer  husband  here?" 

Arnold's  warning  hand  touched  Anne's,  for 
the  third  time.  Mistress  Inchbare's  eyes  re- 
mained fixed  on  her  in  merciless  inquiry.  To 
have  given  utterance  to  the  contradiction  which 
trembled  on  her  lips  would  have  been  to  involve 
Arnold  (after  all  that  he  had  sacrificed  for  her) 
in  the  scandal  which  would  inevitably  follow — 
a  scandal  which  would  be  talked  of  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  which  might  find  its  way  to 
Blanche's  ears.  White  and  cold,  her  eyes  nev- 
er moving  from  the  table,  she  accepted  the  land- 
lady's implied  correction,  and  faintly  repeated 
the  words :  "  My  husband." 

Mistress  Inchbare  drew  a  breath  of  virtuous 
relief,  and  waited  for  what  Anne  had  to  s^y  next. 
Arnold  came  considerately  to  the  rescue,  and  got 
her  out  of  the  room. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said  to  Anne;  "I  know 
what  it  is,  and  I'll  see  about  it.  She's  always 
like  this,  ma'am,  when  a  storm's  coming,"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  the  landlady.  "  No,  thank 


you — I  know  how  to  manage  her.  We'll  send 
to.  you,  if  we  want  your  assistance." 

"At  yer  ain  pleasure,  Sir,"  answered  Mistress 
Inchbare.  She  turned,  and  apologized  to  Anne 
(under  protest),  with  a  stiff  courtesy.  "No  of- 
fense, my  leddy!  Ye'll  remember  that  ye  cam' 
here  alane,  and  that  the  bottle  has  its  ain  gude 
name  to  keep  up."  Having  once  more  vindi- 
cated "the  hottlej"  she  made  the  long-desired 
move  to  the  door,  and  left  the  room. 

"I'm  faint!"  Anne  whispered.  "Give  me 
some  water." 

There  was  no  water  on  the  table.  Arnold 
ordered  it  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs — who  had  re- 
mained passive  in  the  back-ground  (a  model  of 
discreet  attention)  as  long  as  the  mistress  was 
in  the  room. 

"Mr.  Brinkworth!"  said  Anne,  when  they 
were  alone,  "you  are  acting  with  inexcusable 
rashness.  That  woman's  question  was  an  im- 
pertinence. Why  did  you  answer  it?  Why 
did  you  force  me —  ?" 

She  stopped,  unable  to  finish  the  sentence. 
Arnold  insisted  on  her  drinking  a  glass  of  wine 
— and  then  defended  himself  with  the  patient 
consideration  for  her  which  he  had  shown  from 
the  first. 

"  Why  didn't  I  have  the  inn  door  shut  in  your 
face''  —  he  asked,  good  -  humoredly  —  "with  a 
storm  coming  on,  and  without  a  place  in  which 
you  can  take  refuge?  No,  no,  Miss  Silvester! 
I  don't  presume  to  blame  you  for  any  scruples 
you  may  feel — but  scruples  are  sadly  out  of 
place  with  such  a  woman  as  that  landlady.  I 
am  responsible  for  your  safety  to  Geoffrey ;  and 
Geoffrey  expects  to  find  you  here.  Let's  change 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


67 


the  subject.  The  water  is  a  long  time  coming. 
Try  another  glass  of  wine.  No  ?  Well — here 
is  Blanche's  health"'  (he  took  some  of  the  wine 
himself),  "in  the  weakest  sherry  1  ever  drank  in 
my  life."  As  he  set  down  his  glass,  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs  came  in  with  the  water.  Arnold  hailed 
him  satirically.  "Well?  have  you  got  the  wa- 
ter? or  have  you  used  it  all  for  the  sherry?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  thunder-struck  at  the  aspersion  cast  on  the 
wine. 

"Is  that  the  way  ye  talk  of  the  auldest  bottle 
o'  sherry  wine  in  Scotland  ?"  he  asked,  gravely. 
"What's  the  warld  coming  to?  The  new  gen- 
eration's a  foot  beyond  my  fathoming.  The 
maircies  o'  Providence,  as  shown  to  man  in  the 
choicest  veentages  o'  Spain,  are  clean  thrown 
away  on  'em." 

"  Have  you  brought  the  water?" 

"  I  ha'  brought  the  water — and  mair  than  the 
water.  I  ha'  brought  ye  news  from  ootside. 
There's  a  company  o'  gentlemen  on  horseback, 
joost  cantering  by  to  what  they  ca'  the  shootin' 
cottage,  a  mile  from  this. " 

"  Well — and  what  have  we  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Bide  a  wee !  There's  ane  o'  them  has  drawn 
bridle  at  the  hottle,  and  he's  speerin'  after  the 
leddy  that  cam'  here  alane.  The  leddy's  your 
leddy,  as  sure  as  saxpence.  I  doot,"  said  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  walking  away  to  the  window,  "that's 
what  ye've  got  to  do  with  it. " 

Arnold  looked  at  Anne. 
•     "  Do  you  expect  any  body  ?" 

"Is  it  Geoffrey?" 

"  Impossible.  Geoffrey  is  jon  his  way  to  Lon- 
don." 

"There  he  is,  any  way,"  resumed  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs, at  the  window.  "He's  loupin'  down 
from  his  horse.  He's  turning  this  way.  Lord 
save  us!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  start  of  con- 
sternation, "what  do  I  see?  That  incarnate 
deevil,  Sir  Paitrick  himself!" 

Arnold  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Do  you  mean  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  ?" 

Anne  ran  to  the  window. 

"  It  is  Sir  Patrick !"  she  said.  "  Hide  your- 
self before  he  comes  in ! " 

"  Hide  myself?" 

"  What  will  he  think  if  he  sees  you  with  me  ?" 

He  was  Blanche's  guardian,  and  he  believed 
Arnold  to  be  at  that  moment  visiting  his  new 
property.  What  he  would  think  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  foresee.  Arnold  turned  for  help  to  Mr. 
Bishopriggs. 

"  Where  can  I  go  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pointed  to  the  bedroom  door. 

"  Whar'  can  ye  go?  There's  the  nuptial 
chamber !" 

"Impossible!" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  expressed  the  utmost  ex- 
tremity of  human  amazement  by  a  long  whistle, 
on  one  note. 

"  Whew !  Is  that  the  way  ye  talk  o'  the  nup- 
tial chamber  already  ?" 

"Find  me  some  other  place  —  I'll  make  it 
worth  your  while." 

"Eh!  there's  my  paintry !  I  trow  that's  some 
other  place;  and  the  door's  at  the  end  o'  the 


Arnold  hurried  out.      Mr.  Bishopriggs — evi- 
dently under  the  impression  that  the  case  before 
him  was  a  case  of  elopement,  with  Sir  Patrick 
D 


mixed  up  in  it  in  the  capacity  of  guardian — ad- 
dressed himself,  in  friendly  confidence,  to  Anne. 

' '  My  certie,  mistress !  it's  ill  wark  deceivin' 
Sir  Paitrick,  if  that's  what  ye've  dune.  Ye  must 
know,  I  was  ance  a  bit  clerk  body  in  his  cham- 
bers at  Embro — " 

The  voice  of  Mistress  Inchbare,  calling  for  the 
head-waiter,  rose  shrill  and  imperative  from  the 
regions  of  the  bar.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  disappeared. 
Anne  remained,  standing  helpless  by*the  window. 
It  was  plain  by  this  time  that  the  place  of  her 
retreat  had  been  discovered  at  Windygates.  The 
one  doubt  to  decide,  now,  was  whether  it  would 
be  wise  or  not  to  receive  Sir  Patrick,  for  the 
purpose  of  discovering  whether  he  came  as  friend 
or  enemy  to  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  THE  ELEVENTH. 

SIR   PATRICK. 

THE  doubt  was  practically  decided  before  Anne 
had  determined  what  to  do.  She  was  still  at  the 
window  when  the  sitting-room  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  Sir  Patrick  appeared,  obsequiously 
shown  in  by  Mr.  Bishopriggs. 

"  Ye're  kindly  welcome,  Sir  Paitrick.  Hech, 
Sirs !  the  sight  of  you  is  gude  for  sair  eyne. " 

Sir  Patrick  turned  and  looked  at  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs— as  he  might  have  looked  at  some  trouble- 
some insect  which  he  had  driven  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  which  had  returned  on  him  again. 

"  What,  you  scoundrel !  have  you  drifted  into 
an  honest  employment  at  last  ?" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  rubbed  his  hands  cheerfully, 
and  took  his  tone  from  his  superior,  with  supple 
readiness. 

"Ye're  always  in  the  right  of  it,  Sir  Paitrick ! 
Wut,  raal  wut  in  that  aboot  the  honest  employ- 
ment, and  me  drifting  into  it.  Lord's  sake,  Sir, 
hoo  well  ye  wear !" 

Dismissing  Mr.  Bishopriggs  by  a  sign,  Sir 
Patrick  advanced  to  Anne. 

"I  am  committing  an  intrusion,  madam, 
which  must,  I  am  afraid,  appear  unpardonable 
in  your  eyes,"  he  said.  "  May  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  me  when  I  have  made  you  acquainted 
with  my  motive  ?" 

He  spoke  with  scrupulous  politeness.  His 
knowledge  of  Anne  was  of  the  slightest  possible 
kind.  Like  other  men,  he  had  felt  the  attraction 
of  her  unaffected  grace  and  gentleness  on  the  few 
occasions  when  he  had  been  in  her  company — 
and  that  was  all.  If  he  had  belonged  to  the 
present  generation  he  would,  under  the  circum- 
stances, have  fallen  into  one  of  the  besetting  sins 
of  England  in  these  days — the  tendency  (to  bor- 
row an  illustration  from  the  stage)  to  "  strike  an 
attitude"  in  the  presence  of  a  social  emergency. 
A  man  of  the  present  period,  in  Sir  Patrick's  po- 
sition, would  have  struck  an  attitude  of  (what  is 
called)  chivalrous  respect ;  and  would  have  ad- 
dressed Anne  in  a  tone  of  ready-made  sympathy, 
which  it  was  simply  impossible  for  a  stranger 
really  to  feel.  Sir  Patrick  affected  nothing  of 
the  sort.  One  of  the  besetting  sins  of  his  time 
was  the  habitual  concealment  of  our  better  selves 
— upon  the  whole,  a  far  less  dangerous  national 
error  than  the  habitual  advertisement  of  our  bet- 
ter selves,  which  has  become  the  practice,  pub- 
licly and  privately,  of  society  in  this  age.  Sir 


58 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Patrick  assumed,  if  any  thing,  less  sympathy  on 
this  occasion  than  he  really  felt.  Courteous  to 
all  women,  he  was  as  courteous  as  usual  to  Anne 
— and  no'more. 

"  I  am  quite  at  a  loss,  Sir,  to  know  what  brings 
you  to  this  place.  The  servant  here  informs  me 
that  you  are  one  of  a  party  of  gentlemen  who 
have  just  passed  by  the  inn,  and  who  have  all 
gone  on  except  yourself."  In  those  guarded 
terms  Anne'  opened  the  interview  with  the  un- 
welcome visitor,  on  her  side. 

Sir  Patrick  admitted  the  fact,  without  betray- 
ing the  slightest  embarrassment. 

"  The  servant  is  quite  right, "  he  said.  "  I  am 
one  of  the  party.  And  I  have  purposely  allowed 
them  to  go  on  to  the  keeper's  cottage  without 
me.  Having  admitted  this,  may  I  count  on  re- 
ceiving your  permission  to  explain  the  motive  of 
my  visit  ?" 

Necessarily  suspicious  of  him,  as  coming  from 
Windygates,  Anne  answered  in  few  and  formal 
words,  as  coldly  as  before. 

"Explain  it,  Sir  Patrick,  if  you  please,  as 
briefly  as  possible. " 

Sir  Patrick  bowed.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
offended ;  he  was  even  (if  the  confession  may  be 
made  without  degrading  him  in  the  public  esti- 
mation) privately  amused.  Conscious  of  having 
honestly  presented  himself  at  the  inn  in  Anne's 
interests,  as  well  as  in  the  interests  of  the  ladies 
at  Windygates,  it  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor 
to  find  himself  kept  at  arm's-length  by  the  very 
woman  whom  he  had  come  to  benefit.  The 
temptation  was  strong  on  him  to  treat  his  errand 
from  his  own  whimsical  point  of  view.  He  grave- 
ly took  out  his  watch,  and  noted  the  time  to  a 
second,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  have  an  event  to  relate  in  which  you  are 
interested,"  he  said.  "  And  I  have  two  messages 
to  deliver,  which  I  hope  you  will  not  object  to 
receive.  The  event  I  undertake  to  describe  in 
one  minute.  The  messages  I  promise  to  dispose 
of  in  two  minutes  more.  Total  duration  of  this 
intrusion  on  your  time — three  minutes." 

He  placed  a  chair  for  Anne,  and  waited  until 
she  bad  permitted  him,  by  a  sign,  to  take  a  sec- 
ond chair  for  himself. 

"We  will  begin  with  the  event,"  he  resumed. 
"  Your  arrival  at  this  place  is  no  secret  at  Windy- 
gates.  You  were  seen  on  the  foot-road  to  Craig" 
Fernie  by  one  of  the  female  servants.  And  the 
inference  naturally  drawn  is,  that  you  were  on 
your  way  to  the  inn.  It  may  be  important  for 
you  to  know  this ;  and  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
of  mentioning  it  accordingly. "  He  consulted  his 
watch.  "  Event  related.  Time,  one  minute." 

He  had  excited  her  curiosity,  to  begin  with. 
"  Which  of  the  women  saw  me  ?"  she  asked,  im- 
pulsively. 

Sir  Patrick  (watch  in  hand)  declined  to  pro- 
long the  interview  by  answering  any  incidental 
inquiries  which  might  arise  in  the  course  of  it. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  rejoined;  "I  am  pledged 
to  occupy  three  minutes  only.  I  have  no  room 
for  the  woman.  With  your  kind  permission,  I 
will  get  on  to  the  messages  next." 

Anne  remained  silent.  Sir  Patrick  went  on. 
,  ' '  First  message :  '  Lady  Lundie's  compliments 
to  her  step-daughter's  late  governess — with  whose 
married  name  she  is  not  acquainted.  Lady  Lun- 
<lie  regrets  to  say  that  Sir  Patrick,  as  head  of  the 
family,  has  threatened  to  return  to  Edinburgh 


unless  she  consents  to  be  guided  by  his  advice  in 
the  course  she  pursues  with  the  late  governess. 
Lady  Lundie,  accordingly,  foregoes  her  intention 
of  calling  at  the  Craig  Femie  inn,  to  express  her 
sentiments  and  make  her  inquiries  in  person,  and 
commits  to  Sir  Patrick  the  duty  of  expressing 
her  sentiments ;  reserving  to  herself  the  right  of 
making  her  inquiries  at  the  next  convenient  op- 
portunity. Through  the  medium  of  her  brother- 
in-law,  she  begs  to  inform  the  late  governess  that 
all  intercourse  is  at  an  end  between  them,  and 
that  she  declines  to  act  as  reference  in  case  of 
future  emergency.' — Message  textually  correct. 
Expressive  of  Lady  Lundie's  view  of  your  sud- 
den departure  from"  the  house.  Time,  two  min- 
utes." 

Anne's  color  rose.  Anne's  pride  was  up  in 
arms  on  the  spot. 

"  The  impertinence  of  Lady  Lundie's  message 
is  no  more  than  I  should  have  expected  from 
her,"  she  said.  "I  am  only  surprised  at  Sir 
Patrick's  delivering  it." 

"  Sir  Patrick's  motives  will  appear  presently," 
rejoined  the  incorrigible  old  gentleman.  "  Sec- 
ond message :  '  Blanche's  fondest  love.  Is  dy- 
ing to  be  acquainted  with  Anne's  husband,  and 
to  be  informed  of  Anne's  married  name.  Feels 
indescribable  anxiety  and  apprehension  on  Anne's 
account.  Insists  on  hearing  from  Anne  imme- 
diately. Longs,  as  she  never  longed  for  any- 
thing yet>  to  order  her  pony-chaise  and  drive 
full  gallop  to  the  inn.  Yields,  under  irresistible 
pressure,  to  the  exertion  of  her  guardian's  au- 
thority, and  commits  the  expression  of  her  feel- 
ings to  Sir  Patrick,  who  is  a  born  tyrant,  and 
doesn't  in  the  least  mind  breaking  other  people's 
hearts.'  Sir  Patrick  (speaking  for  himself)  places 
his  sister-in-law's  view  and  his  niece's  view,  side 
by  side,  before  the  lady  whom  he  has  now  the 
honor  of  addressing,  and  on  whose  confidence  he 
is  especially  careful  not  to  intrude.  Reminds  the 
lady  that  his  influence  at  Windygates,  however 
strenuously  he  may  exert  it,  is  not  likely  to  last 
forever.  Requests  her  to  consider  whether  his 
sister-in-law's  view  and  his  niece's  view,  in  col- 
lision, may  not  lead  to  very  undesirable  domestic 
results ;  and  leaves  her  to  take  the  course  which 
seems  best  to  herself  under  those  circumstances. 
— Second  message  delivered  textually.  Time, 
three  minutes.  A  storm  coming  on.  A  quar- 
ter of  an  hour's  ride  from  here  to  the  shooting- 
cottage.  Madam,  I  wish  you  good-evening. " 

He  bowed  lower  than  ever — and,  without  a 
word  more,  quietly  hobbled  out  of  the  room. 

Anne's  first  impulse  was  (excusably  enough, 
poor  soul)  an  impulse  of  resentment. 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick!"  she  said,  with  a 
bitter  look  at  the  closing  door.  "  The  sympathy 
of  society  with  a  friendless  woman  could  hardly 
have  been  expressed  in  a  more  amusing  way !" 

The  little  irritation  of  the  moment  passed  off 
with  the  moment.  Anne's  own  intelligence  and 
good  sense  showed  her  the  position  in  its  truer 
light. 

'  She  recognized  in  Sir  Patrick's  abrupt  de- 
parture Sir  Patrick's  considerate  resolution  to 
spare  her  from  entering  into  any  details  on  the 
subject  of  her  position  at  the  inn.  He  had  given 
her  a  friendly  warning ;  and  he  had  delicately 
left  her  to  decide  for  herself  as  to  the  assistance 
which  she  might  render  him  in  maintaining  tran- 
quillity at  Windygates.  She  went  at  once  to  a  side- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


table  in  the  room,  on  which  writing  materials 
were  placed,  and  sat  down  to  write  to  Blanche. 

"1  can  do  nothing  with  Lady  Lundie,"  she 
thought.  "  But  I  have  more  influence  than  any 
body  else  over  Blanche ;  and  I  can  prevent  the 
collision  between  them  which  Sir  Patrick  dreads. " 

She  began  the  letter.  "  My  dearest  Blanche, 
I  have  seen  Sir  Patrick,  and  he  has  given  me 
your  message.  I  will  set  your  mind  at  ease  about 
me  as  soon  as  I  can.  But,  before  I  say  any  thing 
else,  let  me  entreat  you,  as  the  greatest  favor  you 
can  do  to  your  sister  and  your  friend,  not  to  enter 
into  any  disputes  about  me  with  Lady  Lundie, 
and  not  to  commit  the  imprudence — the  useless 
imprudence,  my  love — of  coming  here."  She' 
stopped — the  paper  swam  before  her  eyes.  "  My 
own  darling!"  she  thought,  "who  could  have 
foreseen  that  I  should  ever  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  seeing  you  ?"  She  sighed,  and  dipped 
the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  went  on  with  the  letter. 

The  sky  darkened  rapidly  as  the  evening  fell. 
The  wind  swept  in  fainter  and  fainter  gusts  across 
the  dreary  moor.  Far  and  wide  over  the  face  of 
Nature  the  stillness  was  fast  falling  which  tells 
of  a  coming  storm. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH. 

ARNOLD. 

MEANWHILE  Arnold  remained  shut  up  in  the 
head-waiter's  pantry — chafing  secretly  at  the  po- 
sition forced  upon  him. 

He  was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  in  hiding 
from  another  person,  and  that  person  a  man. 
Twice — stung  to  it  by  the  inevitable  loss  of  self- 
respect  which  his  situation  occasioned — he  had 
gone  to  the  door,  determined  to  face  Sir  Patrick 
boldly ;  and  twice  he  had  abandoned  the  idea,  in 
mercy  to  Anne.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
for  him  to  set  himself  right  with  Blanche's  guard- 
ian without  betraying  the  unhappy  woman  whose 
secret  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  keep.  "  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  had  never  come  here ! "  was  the  use- 
less aspiration  that  escaped  him,  as  he  doggedly 
seated  himself  on  the  dresser  to  wait  till  Sir 
Patrick's  departure  set  him  free. 

After  an  interval — not  by  any  means  the  long 
interval  which  he  had  anticipated  —his  solitude 
was  enlivened  by  the  appearance  of  Father  Bish- 
opriggs. 

"  Well  ?"  cried  Arnold,  jumping  off  the  dress- 
er, "is  the  coast  clear?" 

There  were  occasions  when  Mr.  Bishopriggs 
became,  on  a  sudden,  unexpectedly  hard  of  hear- 
ing. This  was  one  of  them. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  find  the  paintry  ?"  he  asked,  with- 
out paying  the  slightest  attention  to  Arnold's 
question.  "Snug  and  private?  A  Patmos  in 
the  weelderness,  as  ye  may  say ! " 

His  one  available  eye,  which  had  begun  by 
looking  at  Arnold's  face,  dropped  slowly  down- 
ward, and  fixed  itself,  in  mute  but  eloquent  ex- 
pectation, on  Arnold's  waistcoat  pocket. 

"I  understand!"  said  Arnold.  "I  promised 
to  pay  you  for  the  Patmos — eh?  There  you 
are!" 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  pocketed  the  money  with  a 
dreaiy  smile  and  a  sympathetic  shake  of  the 
head.  Other  waiters  would  have  returned 
thanks.  The  sage  of  Craig  Fernie  returned  a 


few  brief  remarks  instead.  Admirable  in  many 
things,  Father  Bishopriggs  was  especially  great 
at  drawing  a  moral.  He  drew  a  moral  on  this 
occasion  from  his  own  gratuity. 

"There  I  am — as  ye  say.  Mercy  presairve 
us !  ye  need  the  siller  at  every  turn,  when  there's 
a  woman  at  yer  heels.  It's  an  awfu'  reflection — 
ye  canna  hae  any  thing  to  do  wi'  the  sex  they 
ca'  the  opposite  sex  without  its  being  an  expense 
to  ye.  There's  this  young  leddy  o'  yours,  I  doot 
she  11  ha'  been  an  expense  to  ye  from  the  first. 
When  you  were  coortin'  her,  ye  did  it,  I'll  go 
bail,  wi'  the  open  hand.  Presents  and  keep- 
sakes, flowers  and  jewelery,  and  litfle  dogues. 
Sair  expenses  all  of  them  !" 

' '  Hang  your  reflections !  Has  Sir  Patrick  left 
the  inn  ?" 

The  reflections  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  declined  to 
he  disposed  of  in  any  thing  approaching  to  a 
summary  way.  On  they  flowed  from  their  pa- 
rent source,  as  slowly  and  as  smoothly  as  ever ! 

"  Noo  ye're  married  to  her,  there's  her  bonnets 
and  goons  and  underjfclothin' — her  ribbons,  laces, 
furbelows,  and  fallals.  A  sair  expense  again ! " 

"  What  is  the  expense  of  cutting  your  reflec- 
tions short,  Mr.  Bishopriggs  ?" 

"  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  if  ye  canna  agree  wi'her 
as  time  gaes  on — if  there's  incompaitibeelity  of 
temper  betwixt  ye — in  short,  if  ye  want  a  wee  bit 
separation,  hech,  Sirs !  ye  pet  yer  band  in  yer 
poaket,  and  come  to  an  aimicable  understandin' 
wi'  her  in  that  way.  Or,  maybe  she  takes  ye 
into  Court,  and  pets  her  hand  in  your  poaket,  and 
comes  to  a  hoastile  understandin'  wi'  ye  there. 
Show  me  a  woman — and  I'll  show  ye  a  man  not 
far  off  wha'  has  mair  expenses  on  his  back  than 
he  ever  bairgained  for."  Arnold's  patience  would 
last  no  longer — he  turned  to  the  door.  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs, with  equal  alacrity  on  his  side,  turned  to 
the  matter  in  hand.  "Yes,  Sir!  The  room  is 
e'en  clear  o'  Sir  Paitrick,  and  the  leddy's  alane, 
and  waitin'  for  ye." 

In  a  moment  more  Arnold  was  back  in  the 
sitting-room. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously.  "What  is  it  ? 
Bad  news  from  Lady  Lundie's  ?" 

Anne  closed  and  directed  the  letter  to  Blanche, 
which  she  had  just  completed.  "No,"  she' re- 
plied. "Nothing  to  interest  you." 

"  What  did  Sir  Patrick  want?" 

"  Only  to  warn  me.  They  have  found  out  at 
Windy  gates  that  I  am  here." 

"That's  awkward,  isn't  it?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  can  manage  perfectly ;  I 
have  nothing  to  fear.  Don't  think  of  me — think 
of  yourself."  • 

"I  am  not  suspected,  am  I?"  • 

' '  Thank  heaven — no !  But  there  is  no  know- 
ing what  may  happen  if  you  stay  here.  Ring 
the  bell  at  once,  and  ask  the  waiter  about  the 
trains. " 

Struck  by  the  unusual  obscurity  of  the  sky  at 
that  hour  of  the  evening,  Arnold  went  to  the 
window.  The  rain  had  come — and  was  falling 
heavily.  The  view  on  the  moor  was  fast  disap- 
pearing in  mist  and  darkness. 

"  Pleasant  weather  to  travel  in !"  he  said. 

"  The  railway !"  Anne  exclaimed,  impatiently. 
"  It's  getting  late.  See  about  the  railway !" 

Arnold  walked  to  the  fire-place  to  ring  the  bell. 
The  railway  time-table  hanging  over  it  met  his 
eye. 


60 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Here's  the  information  I  want,"  he  said  to  ' 
Anne ;  "  if  I  only  knew  how  to  get  at  it.     '  Down'  j 
— '  Up' — '  A.M.' — '  P.M. '    What  a  cursed  confu- 
sion !     I  believe  they  do  it  on  purpose. " 

Anne  joined  him  at  the  fire-place. 

"  I  understand  it — I'll  help  you.  Did  you  say 
it  was  the  up  train  you  wanted?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  station  you  stop  at  ?" 

Arnold  told  her.  She  followed  the  intricate 
net-work  of  lines  and  figures  with  her  finger — 
suddenly  stopped — looked  again  to  make  sure — 
and  turned  from  the  time-table  with  a  face  of 
blank  despair.  The  last  train  for  the  day  had 
gone  an  hour  since. 

In  the  silence  which  followed  that  discovery,  a 
first  flash  of  lightning  passed  across  the  window, 
and  the  low  roll  of  thunder  sounded  the  outbreak 
of  the  storm. 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  asked  Arnold. 

In  the  face  of  the  storm,  Anne  answered  with- 
out hesitation,  "You  must  take  a  carriage,  and 
drive. " 

"Drive?  They  told  me  it  was  three-and- 
twenty  miles,  by  railway,  from  the  station  to  my 
place — let  alone  the  distance  from  this  inn  to  the 
station." 

"  What  does  the  distance  matter?  Mr.  Brink- 
worth,  you  can't  possibly  stay  here !" 

A  second  flash  of  lightning  crossed  the  win- 
dow ;  the  roll  of  the  thunder  came  nearer.    Even 
Arnold's  good  temper  began  to  be  a  little  ruffled  ! 
by  Anne's  determination  to  get  rid  of  him.     He  ! 
sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  made 
up  his  mind  not  to  leave  the  house. 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  he  asked,  as  the  sound 
of  the  thunder  died  away  grandly,  and  the  hard 
pattering  of  the  rain  on  the  window  became  audi- 
ble once  more.  "  If  I  ordered  horses,  do  y%u 
think  they  would  let  me  have  them,  in  such 
weather  as  this  ?  And,  if  they  did,  do  you  sup'- 
pose  the  horses  could  face  it  on  the  moor  ?  No, 
no,  Miss  Silvester — I  am  sorry  to  be  in  the  way ; 
but  the  train  has  gone,  and  the  night  and  the 
storm  have  come.  I  have  no  choice  but  to  stay 
here ! " 

Anne  still  maintained  her  own  view,  but  less 
resolutely  than  before.  "  After  what  you  have 
told  the  landlady,"  she  said,  "think  of  the  em- 
barrassment, the  cruel  embarrassment  of  our 
position,  if  you  stop  at  the  inn  till  to-morrow 
morning!" 

"Is  that  all?"  returned  Arnold. 

Anne  looked  up  at  him,  quickly  and  angrily. 
No !  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  having  said  any 
thing  that  could  offend  her.  His'  rough  mascu- 
line sense  broke  its  way  unconsciously  th'rough 
all  the  little*  feminine  subtleties  and  delicacies  of 
his  companion,  and  looked  the  position  'practi- 
cally in  the  face  for  what  it  was  worth,  and  no 
more.  ' '  Where's  the  embarrassment  ?"  he  ask- 
ed, pointing  to  the  bedroom  door.  "There's 
your  room,  all  ready  for  yon.  And  here's  the 
sofa,  in  this  room,  all  ready  for  me.  If  you  had 
seen  the  places  I  have  slept  in  at  sea — !" 

She  interrupted  him,  without  ceremony.  The 
places  he  had  slept  in,  at  sea,  were  of  no  earth- 
ly importance.  The  one  question  to  consider, 
was  the  place  he  was  to  sleep  in  that  night. 

"  If  you  must  stay,"  she  rejoined,  "  can't  you 
get  a  room  in  some  other  part  of  the  house  ?" 

But  one  last  mistake  in  dealing  with  her,  in 


her  present  nervous  condition,  was  left  to  make 
— and  the  innocent  Arnold  made  it.  "In  some 
other  part  of  the  house  ?"  he  repeated,  jesting- 
ly. "  The  landlady  would  be  scandalized.  Mr. 
Bishopriggs  would  never  allow  it !" 

She  rose,  and  stamped  her  foot  impatiently 
on  the  floor.  "Don't  joke!"  she  exclaimed. 
"This  is  no  laughing  matter."  She  paced  the 
room  excitedly.  "I  don't  like  it!  I  don't  like 
it!" 

Arnold  looked  after  her,  with  a  stare  of  boyish 
wonder. 

"What  puts  you  out  so  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  it 
the  storm  ?" 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  again.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  shortly.  "It's  the  storm." 

Arnold's  inexhaustible  good -nature  was  at 
once  roused  to  activity  again. 

"  Shall  we  have  the  candles,"  he  suggested, 
"and  shut  the  weather  out?"  She  turned  irri- 
tably on  the  sofa,  without  replying.  "I'll  prom- 
ise to  go  away  the  first  thing  in  the  morning!'1 
he  went  on.  "Do  try  and  take  it  easy — and 
don't  be  angry  with  me.  Come !  come !  you 
wouldn't  turn  a  dog  out,  Miss  Silvester,  on  such 
a  night  as  this!" 

He  was  irresistible.  The  most  sensitive  wo- 
man breathing  could  not  have  accused  him  of 
failing  toward  her  in  any  single  essential  of  con- 
sideration and  respect.  He  wanted  tact,  poor 
fellow — but  who  could  expect  him  to  have  learn- 
ed that  always  superficial  (and  sometimes  dan- 
gerous) accomplishment,  in  the  life  he  had  led  at 
sea  ?  At  the  sight  of  his  honest,  pleading  face, 
Anne  recovered  possession  of  her  gentler  and 
sweeter  self.  She  made  her  excuses  for  her  ir- 
ritability with  a  grace  that  enchanted  him. 
"Well  have  a  pleasant  evening  of  it  yet!" 
cried  Arnold,  in  his  hearty  way — and  rang  the 
bell. 

The  bell  was  hung  outside  the  door  of  that 
Patmos  in  the  wilderness — otherwise  known  as 
the  head-waiter's  pantry.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  (em- 
ploying his  brief  leisure  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
own  apartment)  had  just  mixed  a  glass  of  the 
hot  and  comforting  liquor  called  "  toddy"  in  the 
language  of  North  Britain,  and  was  just  lifting  it 
to  his  lips,  when  the  summons  from  Arnold  in- 
vited him  to  leave  his  grog. 

' '  Hand  yer  screechin'  tongue ! "  cried  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs, addressing  the  bell  through  the  door. 
' '  Ye're  waur  than  a  woman  when  ye  aince  begin !" 

The  bell — like  the  woman — went  on  again. 
Mr.  Bishopriggs,  equally  pertinacious,  went  on 
with  his  toddy. 

"Ay!  ay!  ye  may  e'en  ring  yer  heart  out — 
but  ye  won't  part  a  Scotchman  from  his  glass. 
It's  maybe  the  end  of  their  dinner  they'll  be 
wantin'.  Sir  Paitrick  cam'  in  at  the  fair  begin- 
ning of  it,  and  spoilt  the  collops,  like  the  dour 
deevil  he  is !"  The  bell  rang  for  the  third  time. 
"Ay!  ay!  ring  awa'!  I  doot  yon  young  gen- 
tleman's little  better  than  a  belly-god — there's  a 
scandalous  haste  to  comfort  the  carnal  part  o' 
him  in  a'  this  ringin' !  He  knows  naething  o' 
wine,"  added  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  on  whose  mind 
Arnold's  discovery  of  the  watered  sherry  still 
dwelt  unpleasantly. 

The  lightning  quickened,  and  lit  the  sitting- 
room  horribly  with  its  lurid  glare ;  the  thunder 
rolled  nearer  and  nearer  over  the  black  gulf  of 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


61 


the  moor.  Arnold  had  just  raised  his  hand  to 
ring  for  the  fourth  time,  when  the  inevitable 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  It  was  useless  to 
say  "come  in."  The  immutable  laws  of  Bish- 
opriggs  had  decided  that  a  second  knock  was 
necessary.  Storm  or  no  storm,  the  second  knock 
came — and  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  sage  ap- 
peared, with  the  dish  of  untasted  "collops"  in 
his  hand. 

"Candles!"  said  Arnold. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  set  the  "  collops''  (in  the  lan- 
guage of  England,  minced  meat)  upon  the  table, 
lit  the  candles  on  the  mantle-piece,  faced  about, 
with  the  fire  of  recent  toddy  flaming  in  his  nose, 
and  waited  for  further  orders,  before  he  went 
back  to  his  second  glass.  Anne  declined  to  re- 
turn to  the  dinner.  Arnold  ordered  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs to  close  the  shutters,  and  sat  down  to 
dine  by  himself. 

"It  looks  greasy,  and  smells  greasy,"  he  said 
to  Anne,  turning  over  the  collops  with  a  spoon. 
"I  won't  be  ten  minutes  dining.  t  Will  you  have 
some  tea  ?" 

Anne  declined  again. 

Arnold  tried  her  once  more.  "What  shall 
we  do  to  get  through  the  evening?" 

"  Do  what  you  like,"  she  answered,  resignedly. 

Arnold's  mind  was  suddenly  illuminated  by  an 
idea. 

"  I  have  got  it !"  he  exclaimed.  "  We'll  kill 
the  time  as  our  cabin-passengers  used  to  kill  it 
at  sea."  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Mr. 
Bishopriggs.  "Waiter!  bring  a  pack  of  cards. " 

"What's  that  ye're  wantin'?"  asked  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses. 

"A  pack  of  cards,"  repeated  Arnold. 

"  Cairds ?"  echoed  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  "A  pack 
o'  cairds?  The  deevil's  allegories  in  the  deevil's 
own  colors — red  and  black !  I  wunna  execute 
yer  order.  For  yer  ain  saul's  sake,  I  wunna  do 
it.  Ha'  ye  lived  to  your  time  o'  life,  and  are  ye 
no'  awakened  yet  to  the  awfu'  seenfulness  o'  gam- 
blin'  wi'  the  cairds  ?" 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  returned  Arnold.  "You 
will  find  me  awakened — when  I  go  away — to  the 
awful  folly  of  feeing  a  waiter." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  ye're  bent  on  the  cairds?" 
a«ked  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  suddenly  betraying  signs 
of  worldly  anxiety  in  his  look  and  manner. 

"Yes — that  means  I  am  bent  on  the  cards." 

"  I  tak'  up  my  testimony  against  'em — but  I'm 
no'  telling  ye  that  I  canna  lay  my  hand  on  'em 
if  I  like.  What  do  they  say  in  my  country? 
'Him  that  will  to  Coupar,  maun  to  Coupar.' 
And  what  do  they  say  in  your  country  ?  '  Needs 
must  when  the  deevil  drives. ' "  With  that  ex- 
cellent reason  for  turning  his  back  on  his  own 
principles,  Mr.  Bishopriggs  shuffled  out  of  the 
room  to  fetch  the  cards. 

The  dresser-drawer  in  the  pantry  contained  a 
choice  selection  of  miscellaneous  objects — a  pack 
of  cards  being  among  them.  In  searching  for 
the  cards,  the  wary  hand  of  the  head-waiter 
came  in  contact  with  a  morsel  of  crumpled-up 
paper.  He  drew  it  out,  and  recognized  the 
letter  which  he  had  picked  up  in  the  sitting- 
room  some  hours  since. 

"  Ay !  ay !  I'll  do  weel,  I  trow,  to  look  at  this 
while  my  mind's  runnin'  on  it,"  said  Mr.  Bish- 
opriggs. "  The  cairds  may  e'en  find  their  way 
to  the  parlor  by  other  hands  than  mine." 


He  forthwith  sent  the  cards  to  Arnold  by  his 
second  in  command,  closed  the  pantry  door, 
and  carefully  smoothed  out  the  crumpled  sheet 
of  paper  on  which  the  two  letters  were  written. 
This  done,  he  trimmed  his  candle,  and  began 
with  the  letter  in  ink,  which  occupied  the  first 
three  pages  of  the  sheet  of  note-paper. 

It  ran  thus : 

"  WINDYQATES  HOUSE,  August  12, 1868. 
"GEOFFREY  DELAMAYN, — I  have  waited  in 
the  hope  that  you  would  ride  over  from  your 
brother's  place,  and  see  me — and  I  have  waited 
in  vain.  Your  conduct  to  me  is  cruelty  itself; 
I  will  bear  it  no  longer.  Consider !  in  your  own 
interests,  consider — before  you  drive  the  miser- 
able woman  who  has  trusted  you  to  despair. 
You  have  promised  me  marriage  by  all  that  is 
sacred.  I  claim  your  promise.  I  insist  on  no- 
thing less  than  to  be  what  you  vowed  I  should 
be — what  I  have  waited  all  this  weary  time  to 
be — what  I  am,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  your 
wedded  wife.  Lady  Lundie  gives  a  lawn-party 
here  on  the  14th.  I  know  you  have  been  asked. 
I  expect  you  to  accept  her  invitation.  If  I  don't 
see  you,  I  won't  answer  for  what  may  happen. 
My  mind  is  made  up  to  endure  this  suspense  no 
longer.  Oh,  Geoffrey,  remember  the  past !  Be 
faithful — be  just — to  your  loving  wife, 

"ANNE  SILVESTER." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  paused.  His  commentary  on 
the  correspondence,  so  far,  was  simple  enough. 
"  Hot  words  (in  ink)  from  the  leddy  to  the  gen- 
tleman !"  He  ran  his  eye  over  the  second  letter, 
on  the  fourth  page  of  the  paper,  and  added,  cyn- 
ically, "A  trifle  caulder  (in  pencil)  from  the  gen- 
tleman to  the  leddy!  The  way  o'  the  warld, 
Sirs !  From  the  time  o'  Adam  downwards,  the 
way  o'  the  warld !" 

The  second  letter  ran  thus : 

"  DEAR  ANNE, — Just  called  to  London  to  my 
father.  They  have  telegraphed  him  in  a  bad  way. 
Stop  where  you  are,  and  I  will  write  you.  Trust 
the  bearer.  Upon  my  soul,  I'll  keep  my  prom- 
ise. Your  loving  husband  that  is  to  be, 

"  GEOFFREY  DELAMAYN. 

"WlNDYOATES  HOUSE,  AlUft.  14.  •(  P.M. 

"  In  a  mortal  hurry.     Train  starts  at  4.30. " 

There  it  ended ! 

"•Who  are  the  pairties  in  the  parlor?  Is  ane 
o'  them  'Silvester?'  and  t'other  'Delamayn?'" 
pondered  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  slowly  folding  the 
letter  up  again  in  its  original  form.  "Hech, 
Sirs!  what,  being  intairpreted,  may  a'  this 
mean  ?" 

He  mixed  himself  a  second  glass  of  toddy,  as 
an  aid  to  reflection,  and  sat  sipping  the  liquor, 
and  twisting  and  turning  the  letter  in  his  gouty 
fingers.  It  was  not  easy  to  see  his  way  to  the 
true  connection  between  the  lady  and  gentleman 
in  the  parlor  and  the  two  letters  now  in  his  own 
possession.  They  might  be  themselves  the  writ- 
ers of  the  letters,  or  they  might  be  only  friends 
of  the  writers.  Who  was  to  decide  ? 

In  the  first  case,  the  lady's  object  would  ap- 
pear to  have  been  as  good  as  gained;  for  the 
two  had  certainly  asserted  themselves  to  be  man 
and  wife,  in  his  own  presence,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  landlady.  In  the  second  case,  the 


G2 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


correspondence  so  carelessly  thrown  aside  might, 
for  all  a  stranger  knew  to  the  contrary,  prove  to 
be  of  some  importance  in  the  future.  Acting 
on  this  latter  view,  Mr.  Bishopriggs — whose  past 
experience  as  "a  bit  clerk  body,"  in  Sir  Pat- 
rick's chambers,  had  made  a  man  of  business  of 
him — produced  his  pen  and  ink,  and  indorsed 
the  letter  with  a  brief  dated  statement  of  the 
circumstances  under  which  he  had  found  it. 
' '  I'll  do  weel  to  keep  the  Doecument, "  he  thought 
to  himself.  "Wha  knows  but  there'll  be  a  re- 
ward ottered  for  it  ane  o'  these  days  ?  Eh !  eh ! 
there  may  be  the  warth  o'  a  fi'  puu'  note  in  this, 
to  a  puir  lad  like  me !" 

With  that  comforting  reflection,  he  drew  out 
a  battered  tin  cash-box  from  the  inner  recesses 
of  the  drawer,  and  locked  up  the  stolen  corre- 
spondence to  bide  its  time. 

The  storm  rose  higher  and  higher  as  the  even- 
ing advanced. 

In  the  sitting-room,  the  state  of  affairs,  per- 
petually changing,  now  presented  itself  under 
another  new  aspect. 

Arnold  had  finished  his  dinner,  and  had  sent 
it  away.  He  had  next  drawn  a  side-table  up  to 
the  sofa  on  which  Anne  lay — had  shuffled  the 
pack  of  cards — and  was  now  using  all  his  powers 
of  persuasion  to  induce  her  to  try  one  game  at 
Ecart6  with  him,  by  way  of  diverting  her  atten- 
tion from  the  tumult  of  the  storm.  In  sheer 
weariness,  she  gave  up  contesting  the  matter; 
and,  raising  herself  languidly  on  the  sofa,  said 
she  would  try  to  play.  "Nothing  can  make 
matters  worse  than  they  are,"  she  thought,  de- 
spairingly, as  Arnold  dealt  the  cards  for  her. 
"Nothing  can  justify  my  inflicting  my  own 
wretchedness  on  this  kind-hearted  boy !" 

Two  worse  players  never  probably  sat  down 
to  a  game.  Anne's  attention  perpetually  wan- 
dered ;  and  Anne's  companion  was,  in  all  hu- 
man probability,  the  most  incapable  card-player 
in  Europe. 

Anne  turned  up  the  trump — the  nine  of  Dia- 
monds. Arnold  looked  at  his  hand — and  "pro- 
posed." Anne  declined  to  change  the  cards. 
Arnold  announced,  with  undiminished  good-hu- 
mor, that  he  saw  his  way  clearly,  now,  to  losing 
the  game,  and  then  played  his  first  card — the 
Queen  of  Trumps ! 

Anne  took  it  with  the  King,  and  forgot  to  de- 
clare the  King.  She  played  the  ten  of  Trumps. 

Arnold  unexpectedly  discovered  the  eight  of 
Trumps  in  his  hand.  "  What  a  pity !"  he  said, 
as  he  played  it.  "Hullo!  you  haven't  marked 
the  King !  I'll  do  it  for  you.  That's  two — no, 
three — to  you.  I  said  I  should  lose  the  game. 
Couldn't  be  expected  to  do  any  thing  (could  I  ?) 
with  such  a  hand  as  mine.  I've  lost  every  thing, 
now  I've  lost  my  trumps.  You  to  play." 

Anne  looked  at  her  hand.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  lightning  flashed  into  the  room  through 
the  ill-closed  shutters;  the  roar  of  the  thunder 
burst  over  the  house,  and  shook  it  to  its  foun- 
dation. The  screaming  of  some  hysterical  fe- 
male tourist,  and  the  barking  of  a  dog,  rose 
shrill  from  the  upper  floor  of  the  inn.  Anne's 
nerves  could  support  it  no  longer.  She  flung 
her  cards  on  the  table,  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"I  can  play  no  more,"  she  said.  "Forgive 
me — I  am  quite  unequal  to  it.  My  head  burns! 
my  heart  stifles  me! 


She  began  to  pace  the  room  again.  Aggra- 
vated by  the  effect  of  the  storm  on  her  nerves, 
her  first  vague  distrust  of  the  false  position  into 
which  she  and  Arnold  had  allowed  themselves 
to  drift  had  strengthened,  by  this  time,  into  a 
downright  horror  of  their  situation  which  was 
not  to  be  endured.  Nothing  could  justify  such 
a  risk  as  the  risk  they  were  now  running !  They 
had  dined  together  like  married  people — and  there 
they  were,  at  that  moment,  shut  in  together,  and 
passing  the  evening  like  man  and  wife ! 

"Oh,  Mr.  Brinkworth !"  she  pleaded.  "  Think 
— for  Blanche's  sake,  think — is  there  no  way  out 
of  this?" 

Arnold  was  quietly  collecting  the  scattered 
cards. 

"Blanche,  again?"  he  said,  with  the  most 
exasperating  composure.  "I  wonder  how  she 
feels,  in  this  storm  ?" 

In  Anne's  excited  state,  the  reply  almost  mad- 
dened her.  She  turned  from  Arnold,  and  hur- 
ried to  the  door. 

"I  don't  care!"  she  cried,  wildly.  "I  won't 
let  this  deception  go  on.  "  I'll  do  what  I  ought 
to  have  done  before.  Come  what  may  of  it,  I'll 
tell  the  landlady  the  truth !" 

She  had  opened  the  door,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  stepping  into  the  passage — when  she 
stopped,  and  started  violently.  Was  it  possible, 
in  that  dreadful  weather,  that  she  had  actually 
heard  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  strip 
of  paved  road  outside  the  inn  ? 

Yes !  others  had  heard  the  sound  too.  The 
hobbling  figure  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  passed  her 
in  the  passage,  making  for  the  house  door. 
The  hard  voice  of  the  landlady  rang  through  the 
inn,  ejaculating  astonishment  in  broad  Scotch. 
Anne  closed  the  sitting-room  door  again,  and 
turned  to  Arnold — who  had  risen,  in  surprise, 
to  his  feet. 

' '  Travelers ! "  she  exclaimed.   "  At  this  time ! " 

"  And  in  this  weather!"  added  Arnold. 

"  Can  it  be  Geoffrey  ?"  she  asked — going  back 
to  the  old  vain  delusion  that  he  might  yet  feel 
for  her,  and  return. 

Arnold  shook  his  head.  "Not  Geoffrey. 
Whoever  else  it  may  be — not  Geoffrey!" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  suddenly  entered  the  room — 
with  her  .cap-ribbons  flying,  her  eyes  staring, 
and  her  bones  looking  harder  than  ever. 

"Eh,  mistress!"  she  said  to  Anne.  "Wha 
do  ye  think  has  driven  here  to  see  ye,  from 
Windygates  Hoose,  and  been  owertaken  in  the 
storm  ?" 

Anne  was  speechless.  Arnold  put  the  ques- 
tion: "Who  is  it?" 

"  Wha  is't  ?"  repeated  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  It's 
joost  the  bonny  young  leddy — Miss  Blanche 
hersel'. " 

An  irrepressible  cry  of  horror  burst  from 
Anne.  The  landlady  set  it  down  to  the  light- 
ning, which  flashed  into  the  room  again  at  the 
same  moment. 

"Eh,  mistress!  ye'll  find  Miss  Blanche  a  bit 
baulder  than  to  skirl  at  n  flash  o'  lightning,  that 
gait !  Here  she  is,  the  bonny  birdie !"  exclaim- 
ed Mrs.  Inchbare,  deferentially  backing  out  into 
the  passage  again. 

Blanche's  voice  reached  them,  calling  for 
Anne.  * 

Anne  caught  Arnold  by  the  hand  and  wrung 
it  hard.  "  Go !"  she  whispered.  The  next  iu- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


63 


stant  she  was  at  the  mantle-piece,  and  had  blown 
out  both  the  candles. 

Another  flash  of  lightning  came  through  the 
darkness,  and  showed  Blanche's  figure  standing 
at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH. 

BLANCHE. 

MRS.  INCHBARE  was  the  first  person  who  act- 
ed in  the  emergency.  She  called  for  lights  ;  and 
sternly  rebuked  the  house-maid,  who  brought 
them,  for  not  having  closed  the  house  door. 
"Ye  feckless  nerer-do-weel !"  cried  the  land- 
lady; "the  wind's  blawn  the  candles  oot." 

The  woman  declared  (with  perfect  truth)  that 
the  door  had  been  closed.  An  awkward  dispute 
might  have  ensued  if  Blanche  had  not  diverted 
Mrs.  Inchbares  attention  to  herself.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  lights  disclosed  her,  wet  through, 
with  her  arms  round  Anne's  neck.  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare  digressed  at  once  to  the  pressing  question 
of  changing  the  young  lady's  clothes,  and  gave 
Anne  the  opportunity  of  looking  round  her,  un- 
observed. Arnold  had  made  his  escape  before 
the  candles  had  been  brought  in. 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche's  attention  was  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  dripping  skirts. 

"Good  gracious!  I'm  absolutely  distilling 
rain  from  every  part  of  me.  And  I'm  making 
you,  Anne,  as  wet  as  I  am !  Lend  me  some 
dry  things.  You  can't?  Mrs.  Inchbare,  what 
does  your  experience  suggest?  Which  had  I 
better  do?  Go  to  bed  while  my  clothes  are 
being  dried?  or  borrow  from  your  wardrobe — 
though  you  are  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than 
I  am  ?" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  instantly  bustled  out  to  fetch 
the  choicest  garments  that  her  wardrobe  could 
produce.  The  moment  the  door  had  closed  on 
her  Blanche  looked  round  the  room  in  her  turn. 
The  rights  of  affection  having  been  already  as- 
serted, the  claims  of  curiosity  naturally  pressed 
for  satisfaction  next. 

"Somebody  passed  me  in  the  ddrk,"  she 
whispered.  "Was  it  your  husband?  I'm  dy- 
ing to  be  introduced  to  him.  And,  oh  my  dear ! 
what  is  your  married  name  ?" 

Anne  answered,  coldly,  "Wait  a  little.  I 
can't  speak  about  it  yet." 

"Are  you  111?"  asked  Blanche. 

"I  am  a  little  nervous." 

"  Has  any  thing  unpleasant  happened  between 
you  and  my  uncle  ?  You  have  seen  him,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  he  give  you  my  message?" 

"He  gave  me  your  message. — Blanche!  you 
promised  him  to  stay  at  Windygates.  Why,  in 
the  name  of  heaven,  did  you  come  here  to-night  ?" 

"If  you  were  half  as  fond  of  me  as  I  am  of 
you,"  returned  Blanche,  "you  wouldn't  ask  that. 
I  tried  hard  to  keep  my  promise,  but  I  couldn't 
do  it.  It  was  all  very  well,  while  my  uncle  was 
laying  down  the  law — with  Lady  Lundie  in  a 
rage,  and  the  dogs  barking,  and  the  doors  bang- 
ing, and  all  that.  The  excitement  kept  me  up. 
But  when  my  uncle  had  gone,  and  the  dreadful 
gray,  quiet,  rainy  evening  came,  and  it  had  all 
calmed  down  again,  there  was  no  bearing  it. 
The  house — without  you — was  like  a  tomb.  If 


I  had  had  Arnold  with  me  I  might  have  done 
very  well.'  But  I  was  all  by  myself.  Think  of 
that !  Not  a  soul  to  speak  to !  There  wasn't  a 
horrible  thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  you 
that  I  didn't  fancy  was  going  to  happen.  I  went 
into  your  empty  room  and  looked  at  your  things. 
That  settled  it,  my  darling!  I  rushed  down 
stairs — carried  away,  positively  carried  away,  by 
an  Impulse  beyond  human  resistance.  How 
could  1  help  it?  I  ask  any  reasonable  person 
how  could  I  help  it?  I  ran  to  the  stables  and 
found  Jacob.  Impulse — all  impulse!  I  said, 
'  Get  the  pony-chaise — I  must  have  a  drive — I 
don't  care  if  it  rains — you  come  with  me.'  All 
in  a  breiith,  and  all  impulse!  Jacob  behaved 
like  an  angel.  He  said,  CA11  right,  miss.'  I 
am  perfectly  certain  Jacob  would  die  for  me  if  I 
asked  him.  He  is  drinking  hot  grog  at  this  mo- 
ment, to  prevent  him  from  catching  cold,  by  my 
express  orders.  He  had  the  pony-chaise  out  in 
two  minutes ;  and  off  we  went.  Lady  Lundie, 
my  dear,  prostrate  in  her  own  room — too  much 
sal  volatile.  I  hate  her.  The  rain  got  worse. 
I  didn't  mind  it.  Jacob  didn't  mind  it.  The 
pony  didn't  mind  it.  They  had  both  caught  my 
impulse — especially  the  pony.  It  didn't  come 
on  to  thunder  till  some  time  afterward;  and 
then  we  were  nearer  Craig  Fernie  than  Windy- 
gates — to  say  nothing  of  your  being  at  one  place 
and  not  at  the  other.  The  lightning  was  quite 
awful  on  the  moor.  If  I  had  had  one  of  the 
horses,  he  would  have  been  frightened.  The 
pony  shook  his  darling  little  head,  and  dashed 
through  it.  He  is  to  have  beer.  A  mash  with 
beer  in  it — by  my  express  orders.  When  he  has 
done  we'll  borrow  a  lantern,  and  go  into  the 
stable,  and  kiss  him.  In  the  mean  time,  my 
dear,  here  I  am — wet  through  in  a  thunder- 
storm, which  doesn't  in  the  least  matter — and 
determined  to  satisfy  my  own  mind  about  you, 
which  matters  a  great  deal,  and  must  and  shall 
be  done  before  I  rest  to-night ! " 

She  turned  Anne,  by  main  force,  as  she  spoke, 
toward  the  light  of  the  candles. 

Her  tone  changed  the  moment  she  looked  at 
Anne's  face. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  said.  "Yon  would  never 
have  kept  the  most  interesting  event  in  your  life 
a  secret  from  me — you  would  never  have  written 
me  such  a  cold  formal  letter  as  the  letter  you 
left  in  your  room — if  there  had  not  been  some- 
thing wrong.  I  said  so  at  the  time.  I  know  it 
now!  Why  has  your  husband  forced  you  to 
leave  Windygates  at  a  moment's  notice  ?  Why 
does  he  slip  out  of  the  room  in  the  dark,  as  if  he 
was  afraid  of  being  seen  ?  Anne !  Anne !  what 
has  come  to  you  ?  Why  do  you  receive  me  in 
this  way  ?" 

At  that  critical  moment  Mrs.  Inchbare  re- 
appeared, with  the  choicest  selection  of  wear- 
ing apparel  which  her  wardrobe  could  furnish. 
Anne  hailed  the  welcome  interruption.  She 
took  the  candles,  and  led  the  way  into  the  bed- 
room immediately. 

"Change  your  wet  clothes  first,"  she  said. 
"We  can  talk  after  that." 

The  bedroom  door  had  hardly  been  closed  a 
minute  before  there  was  a  tap  at  it.  Signing 
to  Mrs.  Inchbare  not  to  interrupt  the  services 
she  was  rendering  to  Blanche,  Anne  passed 
quickly  into  the  sitting-room,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  To  her  infinite  relief,  she 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"THE    PONY    SHOOK    HIS    DARLING    LITTLE    HEAD,   AND    DASHED    THROUGH    IT." 


only  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  discreet 
Mr.  Bishopriggs. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

The  eye  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  announced,  by  a 
wink,  that  his  mission  was  of  a  confidential  na- 
ture. The  hand  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  wavered ; 
the  breath  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  exhaled  a  spiritu- 
ous fume.  He  slowly  produced  a  slip  of  paper, 
with  some  lines  of  writing  on  it. 

"  From  ye  ken  who,"  he  explained,  jocosely. 
"A  bit  love-letter,  I  trow,  from  him  that's  dear 
to  ye.  Eh !  he's  an  awfu'  reprobate  is  him 
that's  dear  to  ye.  Miss,  in  the  bedchamber 
there,  will  nae  doot  be  the  one  he's  jilted  for 
you?  I  see  it  all — ye  can't  blind  Me — I  ha' 
been  a  frail  person  my  ain  self,  in  my  time. 
Hech !  he's  safe  and  sound,  is  the  reprobate.  I 
ha'  lookit  after  a'  his  little  creature-comforts — 
I'm  joost  a  fether  to  him,  as  well  as  a  fether  to 
you.  Trust  Bishopriggs — when  puir  human  na- 
ture wants  a  bit  pat  on  the  back,  trust  Bishop- 
riggs." 

While  the  sage  was  speaking  these  comforta- 
ble words,  Anne  was  reading  the  lines  traced  on 
the  paper.  They  were  signed  by  Arnold ;  and 
they  ran  thus : 

"I  am  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  inn.  It 
rests  with  you  to  say  whether  I  must  stop  there. 
I  don't  believe  Blanche  would  be  jealous.  If  I 
knew  how  to  explain  my  being  at  the  inn  with- 
out betraying  the  confidence  which  you  and 
Geoffrey  have  placed  in  me,  I  wouldn't  be  away 
from  her  another  moment.  It  does  grate  on  me 
so !  At  the  same  time,  I  don't  want  to  make 
your  position  harder  than  it  is.  Think  of  your- 
self first.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands.  You  have 


only  to  say,  Wait,  by  the  bearer — and  I  shall 
understand  that  I  am  to  stay  where  I  am  till  I 
hear  from  you  again." 

Anne  looked  up  from  the  message. 

"Ask  him  to  wait,"  she  said;  "and  I  will 
send  word  to  him  again." 

"  Wi'  mony  loves  and  kisses,"  suggested  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  as  a  necessary  supplement  to  the 
message.  "Eh!  it  comes  as  easy  as  A.  B.  C. 
to  a  man  o'  my  experience.  Ye  can  ha'  nae 
better  gae-between  than  yer  puir  servant  to 
command,  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs.  I  understand 
ye  baith  pairfeckly. "  He  laid  his  forefinger 
along  his  flaming  nose,  and  withdrew. 

Without  allowing  herself  to  hesitate  for  an 
instant,  Anne  opened  the  bedroom  door — with 
the  resolution  of  relieving  Arnold  from  the  new 
sacrifice  imposed  on  him  by  owning  the  truth. 

"  Is  that  you?"  asked  Blanche. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Anne  started  back 
guiltily.  "I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment,"  she 
answered,  and  closed  the  door  again  between 
them. 

No!  it  was  not  to  be  done.  Something  in 
Blanche's  trivial  question — or  something,  per- 
haps, in  the  sight  of  Blanche's  face — roused  the 
warning  instinct  in  Anne,  which  silenced  her  on 
the  very  brink  of  the  disclosure.  At  the  last 
moment,  the  iron  chain  of  circumstances  made 
itself  felt,  binding  her  without  mercy  to  the 
hateful,  the  degrading  deceit.  Could  she  own 
the  truth,  about  Geoffrey  and  herself,  to  Blanche? 
and,  without  owning  it,  could  she  explain  and 
justify  Arnold's  conduct  in  joining  her  privately 
at  Craig  Fernie  ?  A  shameful  confession  made 
to  an  innocent  girl;  a  risk  of  fatally  shaking 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


65 


Arnold's  place  in  Blanche's  estimation  ;  a  scan- 
dal at  the  inn,  in  the  disgrace  of  which  the 
others  would  he  involved  with  herself — this  was 
tiie  price  at  which  she  must  speak,  if  she  fol- 
lowed her  first  impulse,  and  said,  in  so  many 
words,  "Arnold  is  here." 

It  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Cost  what  it 
might  in  present  wretchedness  —  end  how  it 
might,  if  the  deception  was  discovered  in  the 
future — Blanche  must  be  kept  in  ignorance  of 
the  truth ;  Arnold  must  be  kept  in  hiding  until 
she  had  gone. 

Anne  opened  the  door  for  the  second  time, 
and  went  in. 

The  business  of  the  toilet  was  standing  still. 
Blanche  was  in  confidential  communication  with 
Mrs.  Inchbare.  At  the  moment  when  Anne 
entered  the  room  she  was  eagerly  questioning 
the  landlady  about  her  friend's  "invisible  hus- 
band"— she  was  just  saying,  "  Do  tell  me  !  what 
is  he  like  ?" 

The  capacity  for  accurate  observation  is  a  ca- 
pacity so  uncommon,  and  is  so  seldom  associa- 
ted, even  where  it  does  exist,  with  the  equally 
rare  gift  of  accurately  describing  the  thing  or 
the  person  observed,  that  Anne's  dread  of  the 
consequences  if  Mrs.  Inchbare  was  allowed  time 
to  comply  with  Blanche's  request,  was,  in  all 
probability,  a  dread  misplaced.  Right  or  wrong, 
however,  the  alarm  that  she  felt  hurried  her  into 
taking  measures  for  dismissing  the  landlady  on 
the  spot.  "We  mustn't  keep  you  from  your 
occupations  any  longer,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare.  "  I  will  give  Miss  Lundie  all  the  help 
she  needs." 

Barred  from  advancing  in  one  direction, 
Blanche's  curiosity  turned  back,  and  tried  in 
another.  She  boldly  addressed  herself  to  Anne. 

"I  must  know  something  about  him,"  she 
said.  "Is  he  shy  before  strangers?  I  heard 
you  whispering  with  him  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door.  Are  you  jealous,  Anne  ?  Are  you  afraid 
I  shall  fascinate  him  in  this  dress  ?" 

Blanche,  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's  best  gown — an 
ancient  and  high-waisted  silk  garment,  of  the  1 
hue  called  "bottle-green,"  pinned  up  in  front, 
and  trailing  far  behind  her — with  a  short,  or- 
ange-colored shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  j 
towel  tied  turban  fashion  round  her  head,  to  dry 
her  wet  hair,  looked  at  once  the  strangest  and 
the  prettiest  human  anomaly  that  ever  was  seen. 
"  For  heaven's  sake,"  she  said,  gayly,  "  don't  tell 
your  husband  I  am  in  Mrs'  Inchbare's  clothes  ! 
I  want  to  appear  suddenly,  without  a  word  to 
warn  him  of  what  a  figure  I  am  !  I  should  have 
nothing  left  to  wish  for  in  this  world,"  she  add- 
ed, "  if  Arnold  could  only  see  me  now !" 

Looking  in  the  glass,  she  noticed  Anne's  face 
reflected  behind  her,  and  started  at  the  sight  of 
it. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "Your 
face  frightens  me." 

It  was  useless  to  prolong  the  pain  of  the  in- 
evitable misunderstanding  between  them.  The 
one  course  to  take  was  to  silence  all  further  in- 
quiries then  and  there.  Strongly  as  she  felt  this, 
Anne's  inbred  loyalty  to  Blanche  still  shrank  from 
deceiving  her  to  her  face.  "I  might  write  it," 
she  thought.  "I  can't  say  it,  with  Arnold 
Brinkworth  in  the  same  house  with  her ! " 
Write  it  ?  As  she  reconsidered  the  word,  a 
sudden  idea  struck  her.  She  opened  the  bed- 


room door,  and  led  the  way  back  into  the  sit- 
ting-room. 

"Gone  again!"  exclaimed  Blanche,  looking 
uneasily  round  the  empty  room.  "Anne! 
there's  something  so  strange  in  all  this,  that  I 
neither  can,  nor  will,  put  up  with  your  silence 
any  longer.  It's  not  just,  it's  not  kind,  to  shut 
me  out  of  your  confidence,  after  we  have  lived 
together  like  sisters  all  our  lives !" 

Anne  sighed  bitterly,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead.  ' '  You  shall  know  all  I  can  tell  you 
— all  I  dare  tell  you,"  she  said,  gently.  "  Don't 
reproach  me.  It  hurts  me  more  than  you  think." 

She  turned  away  to  the  side-table,  and  came 
back  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "Read  that," 
she  said,  and  handed  it  to  Blanche. 

Blanche  saw  her  own  name,  on  the  address, 
in  the  handwriting  of  Anne.  • 

"What  does  this  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I  wrote  to  you,  after  Sir  Patrick  had  left  me, " 
Anne  replied.  "  I  meant  you  to  have  received 
my  letter  to-morrow,  in  time  to  prevent  any  lit- 
tle imprudence  into  which  your  anxiety  might 
hurry  you.  All  that  I  can  say  to  you  is  said 
there.  Spare  me  the  distress  of  speaking.  Read 
it,  Blanche." 

Blanche  still  held  the  letter,  unopened. 

"  A  letter  from  you  to  me !  when  we  are  both 
together,  and  both  alone  in  the  same  room !  It's 
worse  than  formal,  Anne !  It's  as  if  there  was 
a  quarrel  between  us.  Why  should  it  distress 
you  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

Anne's  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground.  She 
pointed  to  the  letter  for  the  second  time. 

Blanche  broke  the  seal. 

She  passed  rapidly  over  the  opening  sentences, 
and  devoted  all  her  attention  to  the  second  para- 
graph. 

"And  now,  my  love,  you  will  expect  me  to 
atone  for  the  surprise  and  distress  that  I  have 
caused  you,  by  explaining  what  my  situation 
really  is,  and  by  telling  you  all  my  plans  for  the 
future.  Dearest  Blanche !  don't  think  me  un- 
true to  the  affection  we  bear  toward  each  other 
— don't  think  there  is  any  change  in  my  heart 
toward  you — believe  only  that  I  am  a  very  un- 
happy woman,  and  that  I  am  in  a  position  which 
forces  me,  against  my  own  will,  to  be  silent  about 
myself.  Silent  even  to  you,  the  sister  of  my  love 
— the  one  person  in  the  world  who  is  dearest  to 
me !  A  time  may  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to 
open  my  heart  to  you.  Oh,  what  good  it  will  do 
me !  what  a  relief  it  will  be  !  For  the  present, 
I  must  be  silent.  For  the  present,  we  must  be 
parted.  God  knows  what  it  costs  me  to  write 
this.  I  think  of  the  dear  old  days  that  are  gone ; 
I  remember  how  I  promised  your  mother  to  be 
a  sister  to  you,  when  her  kind  eyes  looked  at  me, 
for  the  last  time — your  mother,  who  was  an  angel 
from  heaven  to  mine!  All  this  comes  back  on 
me  now,  and  breaks  my  heart.  But  it  must  be ! 
my  own  Blanche,  for  the  present,  it  must  be !  I 
will  write  often — I  will  think  of  you,  my  darling, 
night  and  day,  till  a  happier  future  unites  us 
again.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  one  !  And  God 
help  me/" 

Blanche  silently  crossed  the  room  to  the  sofa 
on  which  Anne  was  sitting,  and  stood  there  for 
a  moment,  looking  at  her.  She  sat  down,  and 
laid  her  head  on  Anne's  shoulder.  Sorrowfully 
and  quietly,  she  put  the  letter  into  her  bosom — 
and  took  Anne's  hand,  and  kissed  it. 


C6 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  All  my  questions  are  answered,  dear.  I  will 
wait  your  time." 

It  was  simply,  sweetly,  generously  said. 
Anne  burst  into  tears. 

****** 

The  rain  still  fell,  but  the  storm  was  dying 
away. 

Blanche  left  the  sofa,  and,  going  to  the  win- 
dow, opened  the  shutters  to  look  out  at  the  night. 
She  suddenly  came  back  to  Anne. 

"I  see  lights,"  she  said — "the  lights  of  a  car- 
riage coming  up  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  moor. 
They  are  sending  after  me,  from  Windygates. 
Go  into  the  bedroom.  It's  just  possible  Lady 
Lundie  may  have  come  for  me  herself." 

The  ordinary  relations  of  the  two  toward  each 
other  were  completely  reversed.  Anne  was  like 
a  child  in  JBlan«he's  hands.  She  rose,  and  with- 
drew. 

Left  alone,  Blanche  took  the  letter  out  of  her 
bosom,  and  read  it  again,  in  the  interval  of  wait- 
ing for  the  carriage. 

The  second  reading  confirmed  her  in  a  resolu- 
tion which  she  had  privately  taken,  while  she 
had  been  sitting  by  Anne  on  the  sofa — a  resolu- 
tion destined  to  lead  to  far  more  serious  results 
in  the  future  than  any  previsions  of  hers  could 
anticipate.  Sir  Patrick  was  the  one  person  she 
knew  on  whose  discretion  and  experience  she 
could  implicitly  rely.  She  determined,  in  Anne's 
own  interests,  to  take  her  uncle  into  her  confi- 
dence, and  to  tell  him  all  that  had  happened  at 
the  inn.  "I'll  first  make  him  forgive  me," 
thought  Blanche.  "  And  then  I'll  see  if  he 
thinks  as  I  do,  when  I  tell  him  about  Anne." 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door ;  and  Mrs. 
Inchbare  showed  in — not  Lady  Lundie,  but  Lady 
Lundie's  maid. 

The  woman's  account  of  what  had  happened 
at  Windygates  was  simple  enough.  Lady  Lun- 
die had,  as  a  matter  of  course,  placed  the  right 
interpretation  on  Blanche's  abrupt  departure  in 
the  pony-chaise,  and  had  ordered  the  carriage, 
with  the  firm  determination  of  following  her  step- 
daughter herself.  But  the  agitations  and  anx- 
ieties of  the  day  had  proved  too  much  for  her. 
She  had  been  seized  by  one  of  the  attacks  of  gid- 
diness to  which  she  was  always  subject  after 
excessive  mental  irritation ;  and,  eager  as  she 
was  (on  more  accounts  than  one)  to  go  to  the 
inn  herself;  she  had  been  compelled,  in  Sir  Pat- 
rick's absence,  to  commit  the  pursuit  of  Blanche 
to  her  own  maid,  in  whose  age  and  good  sense 
she  could  place  every  confidence.  The  woman 
— seeing  the  state  of  the  weather — had  thought- 
fully brought  a  box  with  her,  containing  a  change 
of  wearing  apparel.  In  offering  it  to  Blanche, 
she  added,  with  all  due  respect,  that  she  had  full 
powers  from  her  mistress  to  go  on,  if  necessary, 
to  the  shooting-cottage,  and  to  place  the  matter 
in  Sir  Patrick's  hands.  This  said,  she  left  it  to 
her  young  lady  to  decide  for  herself,  whether  she 
'would  return  to  Windygates,  under  present  cir- 
cumstances, or  not. 

Blanche  took  the  box  from  the  woman's  hands, 
and  joined  Anne  in  the  bedroom,  to  dress  herself 
for  the  drive  home. 

"I  am  going  back  to  a  good  scolding,"  she 
said.  "But  a  scolding  is  no  novelty  in  my  ex- 
perience of  Lady  Lundie.  I'm  not  uneasy  about 
that,  Anne — I'm  uneasy  about  you.  Can  I  be  sure 
of  one  thing — do  you  stay  here  for  the  present?" 


The  worst  that  could  happen  at  the  inn  had 
happened.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  now — and 
every  thing  might  be  lost — by  leaving  the  place 
at  which  Geoffrey  had  promised  to  write  to  her. 
Anne  answered  that  she  proposed  remaining  at 
the  inn  for  the  present. 

'  You  promise  to  write  to  me  ?" 
'Yes." 

'  If  there  is  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you —  ?" 
'  There  is  nothing,  my  love. " 
'  There  may  be.  If  you  want  to  see  me,  we 
can  meet  at  Windygates  without  being  discov- 
ered. Come  at  luncheon-time — go  round  by 
the  shrubbery — and  step  in  at  the  library  win- 
dow. You  know  as  well  as  I  do  there  is  nobody 
in  the  library  at  that  hour.  Don't  say  it's  im- 
possible— you  don't  know  what  may  happen.  I 
shall  wait  ten  minutes  every  day  on  the  chance 
of  seeing  you.  That's  settled — and  it's  settled 
that  you  write.  Before  I  go,  darling,  is  there 
any  thing  else  we  can  think  of  for  the  future  ?" 

At  those  words  Anne  suddenly  shook  off  the 
depression  that  weighed  on  her.  She  caught 
Blanche  in  her  arms ;  she  held  Blanche  to  her 
bosom  with  a  fierce  energy.  "Will  you  always 
be  to  me,  in  the  future,  what  you  are  now  ?"  she 
asked,  abruptly.  "  Or  is  the  time  coming  when 
you  will  hate  me  ?"  She  prevented  any  reply  by 
a  kiss — and  pushed  Blanche  toward  the  door. 
"  We  have  had  a  happy  time  together  in  the 
years  that  are  gone, "  she  said,  with  a  farewell 
wave  of  her  hand.  "  Thank  God  for  that ! 
And  never  mind  the  rest." 

She  threw  open  the  bedroom  door,  and  called 
to  the  maid,  in  the  sitting-room.  "  Miss  Lundie 
is  waiting  for  you. "  Blanche  pressed  her  hand, 
and  left  her. 

Anne  waited  a  while  in  the  bedroom,  listening 
to  the  sound  made  by  the  departure  of  the  car- 
riage from  the  inn  door.  Little  by  little,  the 
tramp  of  the  horses  and  the  noise  of  the  rolling 
wheels  lessened  and  lessened.  When  the  last 
faint  sounds  were  lost  in  silence  she  stood  for  a 
moment  thinking — then,  rousing  herself  on  a 
sudden,  hurried  into  the  sitting-room,  and  rang 
the  bell. 

"I  shall  go  mad,"  she  said  to  herself,  "if  I 
stay  here  alone." 

Even  Mr.  Bishopriggs  felt  the  necessity  of  be- 
ing silent  when  he  stood  face  to  face  with  her 
on  answering  the  bell. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  him.  Send  him  here  in- 
stantly." 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  understood  her,  and  with- 
drew. 

Arnold  came  in. 

"  Has  she  gone  ?"  were  the  first  words  he  said. 

"  She  has  gone.  She  won't  suspect  you  when 
you  see  her  again.  I  have  told  her  nothing. 
Don't  ask  me  for  my  reasons !" 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  ask  you." 

"Be  angry  with  me,  if  you  like!" 

"I  have  no  wish  to  be  angry  with  you." 

He  spoke  and  looked  like  an  altered  man. 
Quietly  seating  himself  at  the  table,  he  rested 
his  head  on  his  hand — and  so  remained  silent. 
Anne  was  taken  completely  by  surprise.  She 
drew  near,  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  Let  a 
woman's  mood  be  what  it  may,  it  is  certain  to 
feel  the  influence  of  any  change  for  which  she  is 
unprepared  in  the  manner  of  a  man — when  that 
man  interests  her.  The  cause  of  this,  is  not  to 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


67 


be  found  in  the  variableness  of  her  humor.  It  is 
far  more  probably  to  be  traced  to  the  noble  ab- 
negation of  Self,  which  is  one  of  the  grandest — 
and  to  the  credit  of  woman  be  it  said — one  of 
the  commonest  virtues  of  the  sex.  Little  by  lit- 
tle, the  sweet  feminine  charm  of  Anne's  face 
came  softly  and  sadly  back.  The  inbred  nobil- 
ity of  the  woman's  nature  answered  the  call 
which  the  man  had  unconsciously  made  on  it. 
She  touched  Arnold  on  the  shoulder. 

"This  has  been  hard  on  you,"  she  said. 
"And  I  am  to  blame  for  it.  Try  and  forgive 
me,  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I  am  sincerely  sorry.  I 
wish  with  all  my  heart  I  could  comfort  you !" 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Silvester.  It  was  not  a 
very  pleasant  feeling,  to  be  hiding  from  Blanche 
as  if  I  was  afraid  of  her — and  it's  set  me  think- 
ing, I  suppose,  for  the  first  time  in  my  hfe. 
Never  mind.  It's  all  over  now.  Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you?" 

li  What  do  you  propose  doing  to-night?" 

"What  1  have  proposed  doing  all  along — my 
duty  by  Geoffrey.  I  have  promised  him  to  see 
you  through  your  difficulties  here,  and  to  pro- 
vide for  your  safety  till  he  comes  back.  I  can  only 
make  sure  of  doing  that  by  keeping  up  appear- 
ances, and  staying  in  the  sitting-room  to-night. 
When  we  next  meet  it  will  be  under  pleasanter 
circumstances,  I  hope.  I  shall  always  be  glad 
to  think  that  I  was  of  some  service  to  you.  In 
the  mean  time  I  shall  be  most  likely  away  to- 
morrow morning  before  you  are  up. " 

Anne  held  out  her  hand  to  take  leave.  No- 
thing could  undo  what  had  been  done.  The  time 
for  warning  and  remonstrance  had  passed  away. 

"You  have  not  befriended  in  ungrateful  wo- 
man," she  said.  "  The  day  may  yet  come,  Mr. 
Brinkworth,  when  I  shall  prove  it." 

"I  hope  not,  Miss  Silvester.  Good-by,  and 
good  luck ! " 

She  withdrew  into  her  own  room.  Arnold 
locked  the  sitting-room  door,  and  stretched  him- 
self on  the  sofa  for  the  night. 

****** 

The  morning  was  bright,  the  air  was  delicious 
after  the  storm. 

Arnold  had  gone,  as  he  had  promised,  before 
Anne  was  out  of  her  room.  It  was  understood 
at  the  inn  that  important  business  had  unex- 
pectedly called  him  south.  Mr.  Bishopriggs  had 
been  presented  with  a  handsome  gratuity ;  and 
Mrs.  Inchbare  had  been  informed  that  the  rooms 
were  taken  for  a  week  certain. 

In  every  quarter  but  one  the  march  of  events 
had  now,  to  all  appearance,  fallen  back  into  a  qui- 
et course.  Arnold  was  on  his  way  to  his  estate ; 
Blanche  was  safe  at  Windygates ;  Anne's  resi- 
dence at  the  inn  was  assured  for  a  week  to  come. 
The  one  present  doubt  was  the  doubt  which 
hung  over  Geoffrey's  movements.  The  one  event 
still  involved  in  darkness  turned  on  the  question 
of  life  or  death  waiting  for  solution  in  London 
— otherwise,  the  question  of  Lord  Holchester's 
health.  Taken  by  itself,  the  alternative,  either 
way,  was  plain  enough.  If  my  lord  lived — 
Geoffrey  would  be  free  to  come  back,  and  marry 
her  privately  in  Scotland.  If  my  lord  died — 
Geoffrey  would  be  free  to  send  for  her,  and  mar- 
ry her  publicly  in  London.  But  could  Jeoffrey 
be  relied  on  ? 

Anne  went  out  on  to  the  terrace-ground  in 
front  of  the  inn.  The  cool  morning  breeze  blew 


steadily.  Towering  white  clouds  sailed  in  grand 
procession  over  the  heavens,  now  obscuring,  and 
now  revealing  the  sun.  Yellow  light  and  purple 
shadow  chased  each  other  over  the  broad  brown 
surface  of  the  moor — even  as  hope  and  fear 
chased  each  other  over  Anne's  mind,  brooding 
on  what  might  come  to  her  with  the  coming 
time. 

She  turned  away,  weary  of  questioning  the 
impenetrable  future,  and  went  back  to  the  inn. 

Crossing  the  hall  she  looked  at  the  clock.  It 
was  past  the  hour  when  the  train  from  Perth- 
shire was  due  in  London.  Geoffrey  and  his 
brother  were,  at  that  moment,  on  their  way  to 
Lord  Holchester's  house. 


THIRD  SCENE.— LONDON. 
CHAPTER  THE  FOURTEENTH. 

GEOFFREY   AS-  A    LETTER-WRITER. 

LORD  HOLCHESTER'S  servants— with  the  but- 
ler at  their  head — were  on  the  look-out  for  Mr. 
Julius  Delamayn's  arrival  from  Scotland.  The 
appearance  of  the  two  brothers  together  took 
the  whole  domestic  establishment  by  surprise. 
All  inquiries  were  addressed  to  the  butler  by 
Julius;  Geoffrey  standing  by,  and  taking  no 
other  than  a  listener's  part  in  the  proceedings. 

"  Is  my  father  alive  ?" 

"  His  lordship,  I  am  rejoiced  to  say,  has  aston- 
ished the  doctors,  Sir.  He  rallied  last  night  in 
the  most  wonderful  way.  If  things  go  on  for 
the  next  eight-and-forty  hours  as  they  are  going 
now,  my  lord's  recovery  is  considered  certain." 

"  What  was  the  illness  ?"'    , 

"  A  paralytic  stroke,  Sir.  When  her  ladyship 
telegraphed  to  you  in  Scotland  the  doctors  had 
given  his  lordship  up." 

"Is  my  mother  at  home?" 

"  Her  ladyship  is  at  home  to  you,  Sir." 

The  butler  laid  a  special  emphasis  on  the  per- 
sonal pronoun.  Julius  turned  to  his  brother. 
The  change  for  the  better  in  the  state  of  Lord 
Holchester's  health  made  Geoffrey's  position,  at 
that  moment,  an  embarrassing  one.  He  had 
been  positively  forbidden  to  enter  the  house. 
His  one  excuse  for  setting  that  prohibitory  s»n- 
tence  at  defiance  rested  on  the  assumption  that 
his  father  was  actually  dying.  As  matters  now 
stood,  Lord  Holchester's  order  remained  in  full 
force.  The  under-servants  in  the  hall  (charged 
to  obey  that  order  as  they  valued  their  places) 
looked  from  ' '  Mr.  Geoffrey"  to  the  butler.  The 
butler  looked  from  "  Mr.  Geoffrey"  to  "  Mr.  Ju- 
lius." Julius  looked  at  his  brother.  There  was 
an  awkward  pause.  The  position  of  the  second 
son  was  the  position  of  a  wild  beast  in  the  house 
— a  creature  to  be  got  rid  of,  without  risk  to 
yourself,  if  yon  only  knew  how. 

Geoffrey  spoke,  and  solved  the  problem. 

"  Open  the  door,  one  of  you  fellows,"  he  said 
to  the  footmen.  "  I'm  off." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  interposed  his  brother. 
"  It  will  be  a  sad  disappointment  to  my  mother 
to  know  that  you  have  been  here,  and  gone  away 
again  without  seeing  her.  These  are  no  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  Geoffrey.  Come  up  stairs 
with  me — I'll  take  it  on  myself." 

"  I'm  blessed  if  I  take  it  on  myself !"  returned 
Geoffrey.  ' '  Open  the  door !" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Wait  here,  at  any  rate,"  pleaded  Julius,  "till 
I  can  send  you  down  a  message." 

"Send  your  message  to  Nagle's  Hotel.  I'm 
at  home  at  Nagle's — I'm- not  at  home  here." 

At  that  point  the  discussion  was  interrupted 
by  the  appearance  of  a  little  terrier  in  the  hall. 
Seeing  strangers,  the  dog  began  to  bark.  Per- 
fect tranquillity  in  the  house  had  been  absolutely 
insisted  on  by  the  doctors ;  and  the  servants,  all 
trying  together  to  catch  the  animal  and  quiet 
him,  simply  aggravated  the  noise  he  was  mak- 
ing. Geoffrey  solved  this  problem  also  in  his 
own  decisive  way.  He  swung  round  as  the  dog 
was  passing  him,  and  kicked  it  with  his  heavy 
boot.  The  little  creature  fell  on  the  spot,  whin- 
ing piteously.  "My  lady's  pet  dog!"  exclaim- 
ed the  butler.  "You've  broken  its  ribs,  Sir." 
"  I've  broken  it  of  barking,  you  mean,"  retorted 
Geoffrey.  "Ribs  be  hanged!"  He  turned  to 
his  brother.  "That  settles  it,"  he  said,  jocosely. 
"  I'd  better  defer  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  dear 
mamma  till  the  next  opportunity.  Ta-ta,  Juli- 
us. You  know  where  to  find  me.  Come,  and 
dine.  We'll  give  you  a  steak  at  Nagle's  that 
will  make  a  man  of  you. " 

He  went  out.  The  tall  footmen  eyed  his  lord- 
ship's second  son  with  unaffected  respect.  They 
had  seen  him,  in  public,  at  the  annual  festival 
of  the  Christian-PugilLstic-Association,  with  "the 
gloves"  on.  He  could  have  beaten  the  biggest 
man  in  the  hall  within  an  inch  of  his  life  in  three 
minutes.  The  porter  bowed  as  he  threw  open 
the  door.  The  whole  interest  and  attention 
of  the  domestic  establishment  then  present  was 
concentrated  on  Geoffrey.  Julius  went  up  stairs 
to  his  mother  without  attracting  the  slightest 
notice. 

The  month  was  August.  The  streets  were 
empty.  The  vilest  breeze  that  blows — a  hot  east 
wind  in  London — was  the  breeze  abroad  on  that 
day.  Even  Geoffrey  appeared  to  feel  the  influ- 
ence of  the  weather  as  the  cab  carried  him  from 
his  father's  door  to  the  hotel.  He  took  off  his 
hat,  and  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat,  and  lit  his 
everlasting  pipe,  and  growled  and  grumbled  be- 
tween his  teeth  in  the  intervals  of  smoking.  Was 
it  only  the  hot  wind  that  wrung  from  him  these 
demonstrations  of  discomfort?  Or  was  there 
some  secret  anxiety  in  his  mind  which  assisted 
the  depressing  influences  of  the  day?  There 
was  a  secret  anxiety  in  his  mind.  And  the 
name  of  it  was — Anne. 

As  things  actually  were  at  that  moment,  what 
course  was  he  to  take  with  the  unhappy  woman 
who  was  waiting  to  hear  from  him  at  the  Scotch 
inn? 

To  write?  or  not  to  write?  That  was  the 
question  with  Geoffrey. 

The  preliminary  difficulty,  relating  to  address- 
ing a  letter  to  Anne  at  the  inn,  had  been  already 
provided  for.  She  had  decided — if  it  proved 
necessary  to  give  her  name,  before  Geoffrey 
joined  her — to  call  herself  Mrs.,  instead  of 
Miss,  Silvester.  A  letter  addressed  to  "Mrs. 
Silvester"  might  be  trusted  to  find  its  way  to  her, 
without  causing  any  embarrassment.  The  doubt 
was  not  here.  The  doubt  lay,  as  usual,  between 
two  alternatives.  Which  course  would  it  be 
wisest  to  take? — to  inform  Anne,  by  that  day's 
post,  that  an  interval  of  forty-eight  hours  must 
elapse  before  his  father's  recovery  could  be  con- 
sidered certain  ?  Or  to  wait  till  the  interval  was 


over,  and  be  guided  by  the  result  ?  Considering 
the  alternatives  in  the  cab,  he  decided  that  the 
wise  course  was  to  temporize  with  Anne,  by  re- 
porting matters  as  they  then  stood. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  he  sat  down  to  write  the 
letter — doubted — and  tore  it  up — doubted  again 
— and  began  again — doubted  once  more — and 
tore  up  the  second  letter — rose  to  his  feet — and 
owned  to  himself  (in  unprintable  language)  that 
he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  decide  which  was 
safest — to  write  or  to  wait. 

In  this  difficulty,  his  healthy  physical  instincts 
sent  him  to  healthy  physical  remedies  for  relief. 
"  My  mind's  in  a  muddle,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I'll 
try  a  bath. " 

It  was  an  elaborate  bath,  proceeding  through 
many  rooms,  and  combining  many  postures  and 
applications.  He  steamed.  He  plunged.  He 
simmered.  He  stood  under  a  pipe,  and  received 
a  cataract  of  cold  water  on  his  head.  He  was 
laid  on  his  back ;  he  was  laid  on  his  stomach ; 
he  was  respectfully  pounded  and  kneaded,  from 
head  to  foot,  by  the  knuckles  of  accomplished 
practitioners.  He  came  out  of  it  all,  sleek,  clear, 
rosy,  beautiful.  He  returned  to  the  hotel,  and 
took  up  the  writing  materials — and  behold  the 
intolerable  indecision  seized  him  again,  declin- 
ing to  lie  washed  out !  This  time  he  laid  it  all 
to  Anne.  "That  infernal  woman  will  be  the 
ruin  of  me,"  said  Geoffrey,  taking  up  his  hat. 
"I  must  try  the  dumb-bells." 

The  pursuit  of  the  new  remedy  for  stimulating 
a  sluggish  brain  took  him  to  a  public  house, 
kept  by  the  professional  pedestrian  who  had  the 
honor  of  training  him  when  lie  contended  at 
Athletic  Sports. 

"A  private  room  and  the  dumb-bells!"  cried 
Geoffrey.  "The  heaviest  you  have  got." 

He  stripped  himself  of  his  upper  clothing,  and 
set  to  work,  with  the  heavy  weights  in  each  hand, 
waving  them  up  and  down,  and  backward  and 
forward,  in  every  attainable  variety  of  movement, 
till  his  magnificent  muscles  seemed  on  the  point 
of  starting  through  his  sleek  skin.  Little  by  lit- 
tle his  animal  spirits  roused  themselves.  The 
strong  exertion  intoxicated  the  strong  man.  In 
sheer  excitement  he  swore  cheerfully — invoking 
thunder  and  lightning,  explosion  and  blood,  in 
return  for  the  compliments  profusely  paid  to 
him  by  the  pedestrian  and  the  pedestrian's  son. 
"Pen,  ink,  and  paper!"  he  roared,  when  he 
could  use  the  dumb-bells  no  longer.  "My 
mind's  made  up ;  I'll  write,  and  have  done  with 
it!"  He  sat  down  to  his  writing  on  the  spot; 
he  actually  finished  the  letter ;  another  minute 
would  have  dispatched  it  to  the  post — and,  in 
that  minute,  the  maddening  indecision  took  pos- 
session of  him  once  more.  He  opened  the  let- 
ter again,  read  it  over  again,  and  tore  it  up  again. 
"I'm  out  of  my  mind!"  cried  Geoffrey,  fixing 
his  big  bewildered  blue  eyes  fiercely  on  the  pro- 
fessor who  trained  him.  "Thunder  and  lightning! 
Explosion  and  blood !  Send  for  Crouch." 

Crouch  (known  and  respected  wherever  En- 
glish manhood  is  known  and  respected)  was  a 
retired  prize-fighter.  He  appeared  with  the  third 
and  last  remedy  for  clearing  the  mind  known  to 
the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn — namely,  two 
pair  of  boxing-gloves  in  a  carpet-bag. 

The  gentleman  and  the  prize-fighter  put  on  the 
gloves,  and  faced  each  other  in  the  classically- 
correct  posture  of  pugilistic  defense.  "  None  of 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


GO 


your  play,  mind!"  growled  Geoffrey.  "Fight, 
you  beggar,  as  if  you  were  in  the  King  again, 
with  orders  to  win."  No  man  knew  better  than 
the  great  and  terrible  Crouch  what  real  fighting 
meant,  and  what  heavy  blows  might  be  given 
even  with  such  apparently  haimless  weapons  as 
stuffed  and  padded  gloves.  He  pretended,  and 
only  pretended,  to  comply  with  his  patron's  re- 
quest. Geoffrey  rewarded  him  for  his  polite  for- 
bearance by  knocking  him  down.  The  great  and 
terrible  rose  with  unruffled  composure.  ''Well 
hit,  Sir !"  he  said.  "  Try  it  with  the  other  hand 
now. "  Geoffrey's  temper  was  not  under  similar 
control.  Invoking  everlasting  destruction  on  the 
frequently-blackened  eyes  of  Crouch,  he  threat- 
ened instant  withdrawal  of  his  patronage  and 
support  unless  the  polite  pugilist  hit,  then  and 
there,  as  hard  as  he  could.  The  hero  of  a  hun- 
dred fights  quailed  at  the  dreadful  prospect. 
"  I've  got  a  family  to  support, "  remarked  Crouch. 
"  If  you  will  have  it,  Sir — there  it  is !"  The  fall 
of  Geoffrey  followed,  and  shook  the  house.  He 
was  on  his  legs  again  in  an  instant — not  satis- 
fied even  yet.  *  "None  of  your  body-hitting!" 
he  roared.  "Stick  to  my  head.  Thunder  and 
lightning !  explosion  and  blood !  Knock  it  out 
of  me!  Stick  to  the  head!"  Obedient  Crouch 
stuck  to  the  head.  The  two  gave  and  took 
blows  which  would  have  stunned — possibly  have 
killed — any  civilized  member  of  the  community. 
Now  on  one  side  of  his  patron's  iron  skull,  and 
now  on  the  other,  the  hammering  of  the  prize- 
fighter's gloves  fell,  thump  upon  thump,  horrible 
to  hear — until  even  Geoffrey  himself  had  had 
enough  of  it.  "Thank  you,  Crouch,"  he  said, 
speaking  civilly  to  the  man  for  the  first  time. 
"That  will  do.  I  feel  nice  and  clear  again." 
He  shook  his  head  two  or  three  times ;  he  was 
nibbed  down  like  a  horse  by  the  professional 
runner;  he  drank  a  mighty  draught  of  malt 
liquor;  he  recovered  his  good-humor  as  if  by 
magic.  "Want  the  pen  and  ink,  Sir?"  inquired 
his  pedestrian  host.  "Not  I !''  answered  Geof- 
frey. "  The  muddle's  out  of  me  now.  Pen  and 
ink  be  hanged !  I  shall  look  up  some  of  our  fel- 
lows, and  go  to  the  play."  He  left  the  public 
house  in  the  happiest  condition  of  mental  calm. 
Inspired  by  the  stimulant  application  of  Crouch's 
gloves,  his  torpid  cunning  had  been  shaken  up 
into  excellent  working  order  at  last.  Write  to 
Anne  ?  Who  but  a  fool  would  write  to  such  a 
woman  as  that  until  he  was  forced  to  it  ?  WTait 
and  see  what  the  chances  of  the  next  eight-and- 
forty  hours  might  bring  forth,  and  then  write  to 
her,  or  desert  her,  as  the  event  might  decide. 
It  lay  in  a  nut-shell,  if  you  could  only  see  it. 
Thanks  to  Crouch,  he  did  see  it — and  so  away, 
in  a  pleasant  temper  for  a  dinner  with  "our  fel- 
lows" and  an  evening  at  the  play ! 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH. 
i 

GEOFFREY    IN    THE    MARRIAGE    MARKET. 

THE  interval  of  eight-and-forty  hours  passed — 
without  the  occurrence  of  any  personal  communi- 
cation between  the  two  brothers  in  that  time. 

Julius,  remaining  at  his  father's  house,  sent 
brief  written  bulletins  of  Lord  Holchester's  health 
to  his  brother  at  the  hotel.  The  first  bulletin 
said,  "  Going  on  well.  Doctors  satisfied,"  The 


second  was  firmer  in  tone.  "Going  on  excel- 
lently. Doctors  ver\  sanguine. "  The  third  was 
the  most  explicit  of  all.  "  I  am  to  see  my  father 
in  an  hour  from  this.  The  doctors  answer  for 
his  recovery.  Depend  on  my  putting  in  a  good 
word  for  you,  if  I  can ;  and  wait  to  hear  from 
me  further  at  the  hotel." 

Geoffrey's  face  darkened  as  he  read  the  third 
bulletin.  He  called  once  more  for  the  hated 
writing  materials.  There  could  he  no  doubt 
now  as  to  the  necessity  of  communicating  with 
Anne.  Lord  Holchester's  recovery  had  put  him 
back  again  in  the  same  critical  position  which 
he  had  occupied  at  Windygates.  To  keep  Anne 
from  committing  some  final  act  of  despair,  which 
would  connect  him  with  a  public  scandal,  and 
ruin  him  so  far  as  his  expectations  from  his  fa- 
ther were  concerned,  was,  once  more,  the  only 
safe  policy  that  Geoffrey  could  pursue.  His  let- 
ter began  and  ended  in  twenty  words : 

"DEAR  ANNE, — Have  only  just  heard  that 
my  father  is  turning  the  corner.  Stay  where 
you  are.  Will  write  again." 

Having  dispatched  this  Spartan  composition 
by  the  post,  Geoffrey  lit  his  pipe,  and  waited  the 
event  of  the  interview  between  Lord  Holchester 
and  his  eldest  son. 

Julius  found  his  father  alarmingly  altered  in 
personal  appearance,  but  in  full  possession  of  his 
faculties  nevertheless.  Unable  to  return  the 
pressure  of  his  son's  hand — unable  even  to  turn 
in  the  bed  without  help — the  hard  eye  of  the 
old  lawyer  was  as  keen,  the  hard  mind  of  the 
old  lawyer  was  as  clear,  as  ever.  His  grand  am- 
bition was  to  see  Julius  in  Parliament.  Julius 
was  offering  himself  for  election  in  Perthshire, 
by  his  father's  express  desire,  at  that  moment. 
Lord  Holchester  entered  eagerly  into  politics  be- 
fore his  eldest  son  had  been  two  minutes  by  his 
bedside. 

"Much  obliged,  Julius,  for  your  congratula- 
tions. Men  of  my  sort  are  not  easily  killed. 
(Look  at  Brougham  and  Lyndhurst!)  You 
won't  be  called  to  the  Upper  House  yet.  You 
will  begin  in  the  House  of  Commons — precisely 
as  I  wished.  What  are  your  prospects  with  the 
constituency  ?  Tell  me  exactly  how  you  stand, 
and  where  I  can  be  of  use  to  you." 

"  Surely,  Sir,  you  are  hardly  recovered  enough 
to  enter  on  matters  of  business  yet  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  recovered  enough.  I  want  some 
present  interest  to  occupy  me.  My  thoughts  are 
beginning  to  drift  back  to  past  times,  and  to 
things  which  are  better  forgotten.'1  A  sudden 
contraction  crossed  his  livid  flfce.  He  looked 
hard  at  his  son,  and  entered  abruptly  on  a  new 
question.  "Julius!"  he  resumed,  "have  you 
ever  heard  of  a  young  woman  named  Anne  feil- 
vester  ?" 

Julius  answered  in  the  negative.  He  and  his 
wife  had  exchanged  cards  with  Lady  Lundie, 
and  had  excused  themselves  from  accepting  her 
invitation  to  the  lawn-party.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Blanche,  they  were  both  quite  ignorant 
of  the  persons  who  composed  the  family  circle  at 
Windygates. 

"Make  a  memorandum  of  the  name,"  Lord 
Holchester  went  on.  "Anne  Silvester.  Her 
father  and  mother  are  dead.  I  knew  her  father 
in  former  times.  Her  mother  was  ill-used.  It 


70 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"MEN  OF  MY  SORT  ARE  NOT  EASILY  KILLED." 


was  a  bad  business.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it 
again,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years.  If  the 
girl  is  alive  and  about  the  world  she  may  re- 
member our  family  name.  Help  her,  Julius,  if 
she  ever  wants  help,  and  applies  to  you."  The 
painful  contraction  passed  across  his  face  once 
more.  Were  his  thoughts  taking  him  back  to 
the  memorable  summer  evening  at  the  Hamp- 
stead  villa?  Did  he  see  the  deserted  woman 
swooning  at  his  feet  again  ?  "  About  your  elec- 
tion ?"  he  asked,  impatiently.  ' '  My  mind  is  not 
used  to  be  idle.  Give  it  something  to  do." 

Julius  stated  his  position  as  plainly  and  as 
briefly  as  he  could.  The  father  found  nothing 
to  object  to  in  the  report — except  the  son's  ab- 
sence from  the  field  of  action.  He  blamed  Lady 
Holchester  for  summoning  Julius  to  London. 
He  was  annoyed  at  his  son's  being  there,  at  the 
bedside,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  addressing 
the  electors.  "It's  inconvenient,  Julius,"  he 
said,  petulantly.  "  Don't  you  see  it  yourself?" 

Having  previously  arranged  with  his  mother 
to  take  the  first  Opportunity  that  offered  of  risk- 
ing a  reference  to  Geoffrey,  Julius  decided  to 
"see  it"  in  a  light  for  which  his  father  was  not 
prepared.  The  opportunity  was  before  him.  He 
took  it  on  the  spot. 

"It  is  no  inconvenience  to  me,  Sir,"  he  re- 
plied, "  and  it  is  no  inconvenience  to  my  brother 
either.  Geoffrey  was  anxious  about  you  too. 
Geoffrey  has  come  to  London  with  me." 

Lord  Holchester  looked  at  his  eldest  son  with 
a  grimly-satirical  expression  of  surprise. 

"Have  I  not  already  told  yon,"  he  rejoined, 
"  that  my  mind  is  not  affected  by  my  illness  ? 
Geoffrey  anxious  about  me !  Anxiety  is  one  of 
the  civilized  emotions.  Man  in  his  savage  state 
is  incapable  of  feeling  it." 


"  My  brother  is  not  a  savage,  Sir." 

"His  stomach  is  generally  full,  and  his  skin 
is  covered  with  linen  and  cloth,  instead  of  red 
ochre  and  oil.  So  far,  certainly,  your  brother  is 
civilized.  In  all  other  respects  your  brother  is 
a  savage. " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Sir.  But  there  is 
something  to  be  said  for  Geoffrey's  way  of  life. 
He  cultivates  his  courage  and  his  strength. 
Courage  and  strength  are  fine  qualities,  surely, 
in  their  way  ?" 

"Excellent  qualities,  as  far  as  they  go.  If 
you  want  to  know  how  far  that  is,  challenge  Geof- 
frey to  write  a  sentence  of  decent  English,  and 
see  if  his  courage  doesn't  fail  him  there.  Give 
him  his  books  to  read  for  his  degree,  and,  strong 
as  he  is,  he  will  be  taken  ill  at  the  sight  of  them. 
You  wish  me  to  see  your  brother.  Nothing  will 
induce  me  to  see  him,  until  his  way  of  life  (as 
you  call  it)  is  altered  altogether.  I  have  but  one 
hope  of  its  ever  being  altered  now.  It  is  barely 
possible  that  the  influence  of  a  sensible  woman — 
possessed  of  such  advantages  of  birth  and  fortune 
as  may  compel  respect,  even  from  a  savage — 
might  produce  its  effect  on  Geoffrey.  If  he 
wishes  to  find  his  way  back  into  this  house,  let 
him  find  his  way  back  into  good  society  first,  and 
bring  me  a  daughter-in-law  to  plead  his  cause 
for  him — whom  his  mother  and  I  can  respect  and 
receive.  When  that  happens,  I  shall  begin  to 
have  some  belief  in  Geoffrey.  Until  it  does,  hap- 
pen, don't  introduce  your  brother  into  any  future 
conversations  which  you  may  have  with  Me. 
To  return  to  your  election.  I  have  some  advice 
to  give  you  before  you  go  back.  You  will  do 
well  to  go  back  to-night.  Lift  me  up  on  the  pil- 
low. I  shall  speak  more  easily  with  my  head 
high." 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


71 


His  son  lifted  him  on  the  pillows,  and  once 
more  entreated  him  to  spare  himself. 

It  was  useless.  No  remonstrances  shook  the 
iron  resolution  of  the  man  who  had  hewed  his 
way  through  the  rank  and  file  of  political  hu- 
manity to  his  own  high  place  apart  from  the  rest. 
Helpless,  ghastly,  snatched  out  of  the  very  jaws 
of  Death,  there  he  lay,  steadily  distilling  the 
ctear  common-sense  whieh  had  won  him  all.  his 
worldly  rewards  into  the  mind  of  his  son.  Not 
a  hint  was  missed,  not  a  caution  was  forgotten, 
that  could  guide  Julius  safely  through  the  miry 
political  ways  which  he  had  trodden  so  safely  and 
so  dextrously  himself.  An  hour  more  had  passed 
before  the  impenetrable  old  man  closed  his  weary 
eyes,  and  consented  to  take  his  nourishment  and 
compose  himself  to  rest.  His  last  words,  ren- 
dered barely  articulate  by  exhaustion,  still  sang 
the  praises  of  party  manoeuvres  and  political 
strife.  "  It's  a  grand  career !  I  miss  the  House 
of  Commons,  Julius,  as  I  miss  nothing  else!" 

Left  free  to  pursue  his  own  thoughts,  and  to 
guide  his  own  movements,  Julius  went  straight 
from  Lord  Holchester's  bedside  to  Lady  Hol- 
chester's  boudoir. 

"Has  your  father  said  any  thing  about  Geof- 
frey ?"  was  his  mother's  first  question  as  soon  as 
he  entered  the  room. 

"My  father  gives  Geoffrey  a  last  chance,  if 
Geoifrey  will  only  take  it. " 

Lady  Holchester's  face  clouded.  "I  know," 
she  said,  with  a  look  of  disappointment.  "His 
last  chance  is  to  read  for  his  degree.  Hopeless, 
my  dear.  Quite  hopeless  !  If  it  had  only  been 
something  easier  than  that ;  something  that  rest- 
ed with  me — " 

"It  does  rest  with  you,"  interposed  Julius. 
"  My  dear  mother ! — can  you  believe  it  ? — Geof- 
frey's last  chance  is  (in  one  word)  Marriage ! " 

"  Oh,  Julius !  it's  too  good  to*  be  true !" 

Julius  repeated  his  father's  own  words.  Lady 
Holehester  looked  twenty  years  younger  as  she 
listened.  When  he  had  done  she  rang  the  bell. 

"No  matter  who  calls,"  she  said  to  the  serv- 
ant, "  I  am  not  at  home."  She  turned  to  Julius, 
kissed  him,  and  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  sofa 
by  her  side.  "  Geoffrey  shall  take  that  chance," 
she  said,  gayly — "I  will  answer  for  it!  I  have 
three  women  in  my  mind,  any  one  of  whom 
would  suit  him.  Sit  down,  my  dear,  and  let  us 
consider  carefully  which  of  the  three  will  be  most 
likely  to  attract  Geoffrey,  and  to  come  up  to  your 
father's  standard  of  what  his  daughter-in-law 
ought  to  be.  WThen  we  have  decided,  don't  trust 
to  writing.  Go  yourself  and  see  Geoffrey  at  his 
hotel. " 

Mother  and  son  entered  on  their  consultation 
—and  innocently  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  terrible 
harvest  to  come. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH. 

GEOFFREY  AS  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER. 

TIME  had  advanced  to  after  noon  before  the 
selection  of  Geotfrey's  future  wife  Was  accom- 
plished, and  before  the  instructions  of  Geoffrey's 
brother  were  complete  enough  to  justify  the  open- 
ing of  the  matrimonial  negotiation  at  Nagle's  Ho- 
tel. 

"Don't  leave  him  till  you  have  got  his  prom- 


ise," were  Lady  Holchester's  last  words  when  her 
son  started  on  his  mission. 

"  If  Geoffrey  doesn't  jump  at  what  I  am  going 
to  offer  him,"  was  the  son's  reply,  "  I  shall  agree 
with  my  father  that  the  case  is  hopeless ;  and  I 
shall  end,  like  my  father,  in  giving  Geoffrey  up." 

This  was  strong  language  for  Julius  to  use. 
It  was  not  easy  to  rouse  the  disciplined  and  eq*ua- 
ble  temperament  of  Lord  Holchester's  eldest  son. 
No  two  men  were  ever  more  thoroughly  unlike 
each  other  than  these  two  brothers.  It  is  mel- 
ancholy to  acknowledge  it  of  the  blood-relation 
of  a  "  stroke  oar,"  but  it  must  be  owned,  in  the 
interests  of  truth,  that  Julius  cultivated  his  intel- 
ligence. This  degenerate  Briton  could  digest 
books — and  couldn't  digest  beer.  Could  learn 
languages — and  couldn't  learn  to  row.  Prac- 
ticed the  foreign  vice  of  perfecting  himself  in  the 
art  of  playing  on  a  musical  instrument  —  and 
couldn't  learn  the  English  virtue  of  knowing  a 
good  horse  when  he  saw  him.  Got  through  life 
(Heaven  only  knows  how!)  without  either  a  bi- 
ceps or  a  betting-book.  Had  openly  acknowl- 
edged, in  English  society,  that  he  didn't  think 
the  barking  of  a  pack  of  hounds  the  finest  music 
in  the  world.  Could  go  to  foreign  parts,  and 
see  a  mountain  which  nobody  had  ever  got  to  the 
top  of  yet — and  didn't  instantly  feel  his  honor 
as  an  Englishman  involved  in  getting  to  the  top 
of  it  himself.  Such  people  may,  and  do,  exist 
among  the  inferior  races  of  the  Continent.  Let 
us  thank  Heaven,  Sir,  that  England  never  has 
been,  and  never  will  be,  the  right  place  for 
them! 

Arrived  at  Nagle's  Hotel,' and  finding  nobody 
to  inquire  of  in  the  hall,  Julius  applied  to  the 
young  lady  who  sat  behind  the  window  of  "  the 
bar."  The  young  lady  was  reading  something 
so  deeply  interesting  in  the  evening  newspaper 
that  she  never  even  heard  him.  Julius  went 
into  the  coffee-room. 

The  waiter,  in  his  corner,  was  absorbed  over 
a  second  newspaper.  Three  gentlemen,  at  three 
different  tables,  were  absorbed  in  a  third,  fourth, 
and  fifth  newspaper.  They  all  alike  went  on 
with  their  reading  without  noticing  the  entrance 
of  the  stranger.  Julius  ventured  on  disturbing 
the  waiter  by  asking  for  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 
At  the  sound  of  that  illustrious  name  the  waiter 
looked  up  with  a  start.  "Are  you  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn's  brother,  Sir  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  three  gentlemen  at  the  tables  looked  up 
with  a  start.  The  light  of  Geoffrey's  celebrity 
fell,  reflected,  on  Geoffrey's  brother,  and  made 
a  public  character  of  him. 

"  You'll  find  Mr.  Geoffrey,  Sir,"  said  the  wait- 
er, in  a  flurried,  excited  manner,  "at  the  Cock 
and  Bottle,  Putney." 

"I  expected  to  find  him  here.  I  had  an  ap- 
pointment with  him  at  this  hotel." 

The  waiter  opened  his  eyes  on  Julius  with  an 
expression  of  blank  astonishment.  "Haven't 
you  heard  the  news,  Sir  ?" 

"No." 

"God  bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  waiter 
— and  offered  the  newspaper.  • 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  the  three 
gentlemen — and  offered  the  three  newspapers. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Julius. 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  the  waiter,  in  a  hol- 
low voice.  "The  most  dreadful  thing  that's 


72 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


happened  in  my  time.  It's  all  up,  Sir,  with  the 
Great  Foot-Kace  at  Fulham.  Tinkler  has  gone 
stale. " 

The  three  gentlemen  dropped  solemnly  back 
into  their  three  chairs,  and  repeated  the  dread- 
ful intelligence,  in  chorus — "  Tinkler  has  gone 
stale." 

A  man  who  stands  face  to  face  with  a  great 
national  disaster,  and  who  doesn't  understand  it, 
is  a  man  who  will  do  wisely  to  hold  his  tongue, 
and  enlighten  his  mind  without  asking  other 
people  to  help  him.  Julius  accepted  the  wait- 
er's newspaper,  and  sat  down  to  make  (if  pos- 
sible) two  discoveries :  First,  as  to  whether 
"  Tinkler"  did,  or  did  not,  mean  a  man.  Sec- 
ond, as  to  what  particular  form  of  human  afflic- 
tion you  implied  when  you  described  that  man 
as  "gone  stale." 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  news. 
It  was  printed  in  the  largest  type,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  personal  statement  of  the  facts,  taken 
one  way — which  was  followed,  in  its  turn,  by 
another  personal  statement  of  the  facts,  taken 
in  another  way.  More  particulars,  and  further 
personal  statements,  were  promised  in  later"  edi- 
tions. The  royal  salute  of  British  journalism 
thundered  the  announcement  of  Tinkler's  stale- 
ness  before  a  people  prostrate  on  the  national 
betting-book. 

Divested  of  exaggeration,  the  facts  were  few 
enough  and  simple  enough.  A  famous  Athletic 
Association  of  the  North  had  challenged  a  fa- 
mous Athletic  Association  of  the  South.  The 
usual  "  Sports"  were  to  take  place — such  as  run- 
ning, jumping,  "putting"  the  hammer,  throw- 
ing cricket-Jmlls,  and  the  like — and  the  whole 
was  to  wind  up  with  a  Foot-Kace  of  unexampled 
length  and  difficulty  in  the  annals  of  human 
achievement  between  the  two  best  men  on  either 
side.  "Tinkler"  was  the  best  man  on  the  side 
of  the  South.  "Tinkler"  was  backed  in  in- 
numerable betting-books  to  win.  And  Tinkler's 
lungs  had  suddenly  given  way  under  stress  of 
training  !  A  prospect  of  witnessing  a  prodigious 
achievement  in  foot-racing,  and  (more  important 
still)  a  prospect  of  winning  and  losing  large  sums 
of  money,  was  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the 
eyes  of  the  British  people.  The  "South"  could 
produce  no  second  opponent  worthy  of  the  North 
out  of  its  own  associated  resources.  Surveying 
the  athletic  world  in  general,  but  one  man  ex- 
isted who  might  possibly  replace  "Tinkler" — 
and  it  was  doubtful,  in  the  last  degree,  whether 
he  would  consent  to  come  forward  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. The  name  of  that  man — Julius 
read  it  with  horror — was  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

Profound  silence  reigned  in  the  coffee-room. 
Julius  laid  down  the  newspaper,  and  looked  about 
him.  The  waiter  was  busy,  in  his  corner,  with 
a  pencil  and  a  betting-book.  The  three  gentle- 
men were  busy,  at  the  three  tables,  with  pencils 
and  betting-books. 

"Try  and  persuade  him!"  said  the  waiter, 
piteously,  as  Delamayn's  brother  rose  to  leave 
the  room. 

"Try  and  persuade  him!"  echoed  the  three 
gentlemen,  as  Delamayn's  brother  opened  the 
door  and  went  out. 

Julius  called  a  cab,  and  told  the  driver  (busy 
with  a  pencil  and  a  betting-book)  to  go  to  the 
Cock  and  Bottle,  Putney.  The  man  brightened 
into  a  new  being  at  the' prospect.  No  need  to 


'hurry  him ;  he  drove,  unasked,  at  the  top  of  his 
horse's  speed. 

As  the  cab  drew  near  to  its  destination  the 
signs  of  a  great  national  excitement  appeared, 
and  multiplied.  The  lips  of  a  people  pronounced, 
with  a  grand  unanimity,  the  name  of  "  Tinkler." 
The  heart  of  a  people  hung  suspended  (mostly 
in  the  public  houses)  on  the  chances  for  and 
against  the  possibility  of  replacing  "Tinkler" 
by  another  man.  The  scene  in  front  of  the  inn 
was  impressive  in  the  highest  degree.  Even  the 
London  blackguard  stood  awed  and  quiet  in  the 
presence  of  the  national  calamity.  Even  the  ir- 
repressible man  with  the  apron,  who  always  turns 
up  to  sell  nuts  and  sweetmeats  in  a  crowd,  plied 
his  trade  in  silence,  and  found  few  indeed  (to 
the  credit  of  the  nation  be  it  spoken)  who  had 
the  heart  to  crack  a  nut  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
The  police  were  on  the  spot,  in  large  numbers, 
and  in  mute  sympathy  with  the  people,  touching 
to  see.  Julius,  on  being  stopped  at  the  door, 
mentioned  his  name — and  received  an  ovation. 
His  brother !  oh,  heavens,  his  brother !  The 
people  closed  round  him,  the  people  shook  hands 
with  him,  the  people  invoked  blessings  on  his 
head.  Julius  was  half  suffocated,  when  the  po- 
lice rescued  him,  and  landed  him  safe  in  the 
privileged  haven  on  the  inner  side  of  the  public 
house  door.  A  deafening  tumult  broke  out,  as 
he  entered,  from  the  regions  above  stairs.  A 
distant  voice  screamed,  "Mind  yourselves  !"  A 
hatless  shouting  man  tore  down  through  the  peo- 
ple congregated  on  the  stairs.  "Hooray !  Hoo- 
ray !  He's  promised  to  do  it !  He's  entered  for 
the  race!"  Hundreds  on  hundreds  of  voices 
took  up  the  cry.  A  roar  of  cheering  burst  from, 
the  people  outside.  Reporters  for  the  newspa- 
pers raced,  in  frantic  procession,  out  of  the  inn, 
and  rushed  into  cabs  to  put  the  news  in  print. 
The  hand  of  the  landlord,  leading  Julius  care- 
fully up  stairs  by  the  arm,  trembled  with  excite- 
ment. "  His  brother,  gentlemen !  his  brother!" 
At  those  magic  words  a  lane  was  made  through 
the  throng.  At  those  magic  words  the  closed 
door  of  the  council-chamber  flew  open ;  and 
Julius  found  himself  among  the  Athletes  of  his 
native  country,  in  full  parliament  assembled. 
Is  any  description  of  them  needed  ?  The  de- 
scription of  Geoffrey  applies  to  them  all.  The 
manhood  and  muscle  of  England  resemble  the 
wool  and  mutton  of  England,  in  this  .respect, 
that  there  is  about  as  much  variety  in  a  flock  of 
athletes  as  in  a  flock  of  sheep.  Julius  looked 
about  him,  and  saw  the  same  man  in  the  same 
dress,  with  the  same  health,  strength,  tone, 
tastes, '  habits,  conversation,  and  pursuits,  re- 
peated infinitely  in  every  part  of  the  room.  The 
din  was  deafening ;  the  enthusiasm  (to  an  unin- 
itiated stranger)  something  at  once  hideous  and 
terrifying  to  behold.  Geoffrey  had  been  lifted 
bodily  on  to  the  table,  in  his  chair,  so  as  to  be  vis- 
ible to  the  whole  room.  They  sang  round  him, 
they  danced  round  him,  they  cheered  round  him, 
they  swore  round  him.  He  was  hailed,  in  maud- 
lin terms  of  endearment,  by  grateful  giants  with 
tears  in  their  eyes.  "  Dear  old  man !"  "  Glo- 
rious, noble,  splendid,  beautiful  fellow!"  They 
hugged  him.  They  patted  him  on  the  back. 
They  wrung  his  hands.  They  prodded  and 
punched  his  muscles.  They  embraced  the  noble 
legs  that  were  going  to  run  the  unexampled  race. 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  where  it  was 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


physically  impossible  to  get  near  the  hero,  the 
eiithuMasm  vented  itself  in  feats  of  strength  and 
acts  of  destruction.  Hercules  I.  cleared  a  space 
with  his  elbows,  and  laid  down — and  Hercules 
II.  took  him  up  in  his  teeth.  Hercules  III. 
seized  the  poker  from  the  fire-place,  and  broke 
it  on  his  arm.  Hercules  IV.  followed  with  the 
tongs,  and  shattered  them  on  his  neck.  The 
smashing  of  the  furniture  and  the  pulling  down 
of  the  house  seemed  likely  to  succeed — when 
Geoffrey's  eye  lighted  by  accident  on  Julius,  and 
Geoffrey's  voice,  calling  fiercely  for  his  brother, 
hushed  the  wild  assembly  into  sudden  attention, 
and  turned  the  fiery  enthusiasm  into  a  new  course. 
Hooray  for  his  brother !  One,  two,  three — and 
up  with  his  brother  on  our  shoulders!  Four, 
five,  six — and  on  with  his  brother,  over  our 
heads,  to  the  other  end  of  the  room !  See,  boys 
— see!  the  hero  has  got  him  by  the  collar!  the 
hero  has  lifted  him  on  the  table!  The  hero, 
heated  red-hot  with  his  own  triumph,  welcomes 
the  poor  little  snob  cheerfully,  with  a  volley  of 
oaths.  "Thunder  and  lightning!  Explosion 
and  blood!  What's  up  now,  Julius?  What's 
up  now?'' 

Julius  recovered  his  breath,  and  arranged  his 
coat.  The  quiet  little  man,  who  had  just  muscle 
enough  to  lift  a  Dictionary  from  the  shelf,  and 
just  training  enough  to  play  the  fiddle,  so  far 
from  being  daunted  by  the  rough  reception  ac- 
corded to  him,  appeared  to  feel  no  other  senti- 
ment in  relation  to  it  than  a  sentiment  of  unmit- 
igated contempt. 

"  You're  not  frightened,  are  you  ?"  said  Geof- 
frey. "Our  fellows  are  a  roughish  lot,  but  they 
mean  well." 

"  I  am  not  frightened, "  answered  Julius.  "  I 
am  only  wondering — when  the  Schools  and  Uni- 
versities of  England  turn  out  such  a  set  of  ruf- 
fians as  these — how  long  the  Schools  and  Uni- 
versities of  England  will  last." 

"Mind  what  you  are  about,  Julius !  They'll 
cart  you  out  of  window  if  they  hear  you." 

"  They  will  only  confirm  my  opinion  of  them, 
Geoffrey,  if  they  do." 

Here,  the  assembly,  seeing  but  not  hearing  the 
colloquy  between  the  two  brothers,  became  un- 
easy on  the  subject  of  the  coming  race.  A  roar 
of  voices  summoned  Geoffrey  to  announce  it,  if 
there  was  any  thing  wrong.  Having  pacified  the 
meeting,  Geoffrey  turned  again  to  his  brother, 
and  asked  him,  in  no  amiable  mood,  what  the 
devil  he  wanted  there  ? 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  before  I  go 
back  to  Scotland,"  answered  Julius.  "My  fa- 
ther is  willing  to  give  you  a  last  chance.  If  you 
don't  take  it,  my  doors  are  closed  against  you  as 
wt-11  as  his." 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable,  in  its  way,  than 
the  sound  common-sense  and  admirable  self-re- 
straint exhibited  by  the  youth  of  the  present  time, 
when  confronted  by  an  emergency  in  which  their 
own  interests  are  concerned.  Instead  of  resent- 
ing the  tone  which  his  brother  had  taken  with 
him,  Geoffrey  instantly  descended  from  the  ped- 
estal of  glory  on  which  he  stood,  and  placed 
himself  without  a  struggle  in  the  hands  which 
vicariously  held  his  destiny  —  otherwise,  the 
hands  which  vicariously  held  the  purse.  In 
five  minutes  more  the  meeting  had  been  dis- 
missed, with  all  needful  assurances  relating  to 
Geoffrey's  share  in  the  coming  Sports — and  the 
£ 


two  brothers  were  closeted  together  in  one  of  the 
private  rooms  of  the  inn. 

"Out  with  it!"  said  Geoffrey.  "And  don't 
be  long  about  it." 

"  I  won't  be  five  minutes,"  replied  Julius.  "  I 
go  back  to-night  by  the  mail-train  ;  and  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  do  in  the  mean  time.  Here  it  is, 
in  plain  words :  My  father  consents  to  see  you 
again,  if  you  choose  to  settle  in  life — with  his 
approval.  And  my  mother  has  discovered  where 
you  may  find  a  wife.  Birth,  beauty,  and  money 
are  all  offered  to  you.  Take  them — and  you 
recover  your  position  as  Lord  Holchester's  son. 
Refuse  them — and  you  go  to  ruin  your  own 
way. " 

Geoffrey's  reception  of  the  news  from  home 
was  not  of  the  most  reassuring  kind.  Instead 
of  answering  he  struck  his  fist  furiously  on  the 
table,  and  cursed  with  all  his  heart  some  absent 
woman  unnamed. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  degrading 
connection  which  you  may  have  formed,"  Julius 
went  on.  "  I  have  only  to  put  the  matter  before 
you  exactly  as  it  stands,  and  to  leave  you  to  de- 
cide for  yourself.  The  lady  in  question  was  for- 
merly Miss  Newenden — a  descendant  of  one  of 
the  oldest  families  in  England.  She  is  now  Mrs. 
Glenarm — the  young  widow  (and  the  childless 
widow)  of  the  great  iron-master  of  that  name. 
Birth  and  fortune — she  unites  both.  Her  income 
is  a  clear  ten  thousand  a  year.  My  father  can, 
and  will,  make  it  fifteen  thousand,  if  you  are 
lucky  enough  to  persuade  her  to  marry  you. 
My  mother  answers  for  her  personal  qualities. 
And  my  wife  has  met  her  at  our  house  in  Lon- 
don. She  is  now,  as  I  hear,  staying  with  some 
friends  in  Scotland ;  and  when  I  get  back  I  will 
take  care  that  an  invitation  is  sent  to  her  to  pay 
her  next  visit  at  my  house.  It  remains,  of  course, 
to  be  seen  whether  you  are  fortunate  enough  to 
produce  a  favorable  impression  on  her.  In  the 
mean  time  you  will  be  doing  every  thing  that 
my  father  can  ask  of  you,  if  you  make  the  at- 
tempt. " 

Geoffrey  impatiently  dismissed  that  part  of  the 
question  from  all  consideration. 

"If  she  don't  cotton  to  a  man  who's  going  to 
run  in  the  Great  Kace  at  1'ulham,"  he  said, 
"there  are  plenty  as  good  as  she  is  who  will! 
That's  not  the  difficulty.  Bother  that .'" 

"I  tell  you  again,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  difficulties,"  Julius  resumed.  "Take  the 
rest  of  the  day  to  consider  what  I  have  said  to 
you.  If  you  decide  to  accept  the  proposal,  I 
shall  expect  you  to  prove  you  are  in  earnest  by 
meeting  me  at  the  station  to-night.  We  will 
travel  back  to  Scotland  together.  You  will 
complete  your  interrupted  visit  at  Lady  Lun- 
die's  (it  is  important,  in  my  interests,  that  you 
shciuld  treat  a  person  of  her  position  in  the  coun- 
ty with  all  due  respect) ;  and  my  wife  will  make 
the  necessary  arrangements  with  Mrs.  Glenarm, 
in  anticipation  of  your  return  to  our  house.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  no  further  neces- 
sity of  my  staying  here.  If  you  join  me  at  the 
station  to-night,  your  sister-in-law  and  I  will  do 
all  we  can  to  help  you.  If  I  travel  back  to  Scot- 
land alone,  don't  trouble  yourself  to  follow — I 
have  done  with  you. "  He  shook  hands  with  his 
brother,  and  went  out. 

'Left  alone,  Geoffrey  lit  his  pipe  and  sent  for 
the  landlord. 


74 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Get  me  a  boat.  I  shall  scull  myself  up  the 
river  for  an  hour  or  two.  And  put  in  some  tow- 
els. I  may  take  a  swim." 

The  landlord  received  the  order — with  a  cau- 
tion addressed  to  his  illustrious  guest. 

' '  Don't  show  yourself  in  front  of  the  house, 
Sir !  If  you  let  the  people  see  you,  they're  in 
such  a  state  of  excitement,  the  police  won't  an- 
swer for  keeping  them  in  order." 

"  All  right.     I'll  go  out  by  the  back  way." 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room.  What 
were  the  difficulties  to  be  overcome  before  he 
could  profit  by  the  golden  prospect  which  his 
brother  had  offered  to  him  ?  The  Sports  ?  No ! 
The  committee  had  promised  to  defer  the  day, 
if  he  wished  it — and  a  month's  training,  in  his 
physical  condition,  would  be  amply  enough  for 
him.  Had  he  any  personal  objection  to  trying 
his  luck  with  Mrs.  Glenarm?  Not  he!  Any 
woman  would  do — provided  his  father  was  sat- 
isfied, and  the  money  was  all  right.  The  ob- 
stacle which  was  really  in  his  way  was  the  ob- 
stacle of  the  woman  whom  he  had  ruined. 
Anne !  The  one  insuperable  difficulty  was  the 
difficulty  of  dealing  with  Anne. 

"  We'll  see  how  it  looks,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  after  a  pull  up  the  river ! " 

The  landlord  and  the  police  inspector  smug- 
gled him  out  by  the  back  way  unknown  to  the 
expectant  populace  in  front.  The  two  men  stood 
on  the  river-bank  admiring  him,  as  he  pulled  away 
from  them,  with  his  long,  powerful,  easy,  beauti- 
ful stroke. 

"That's  what  I  call  the  pride  and  flower  of 
England!"  said  the  inspector.  "Has  the  bet- 
ting on  him  begun  ?" 

"Six  to  four,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  no 
takers." 

Julius  went  early  to  the  station  that  night. 
His  mother  was  very  anxious.  "Don't  let 
Geoffrey  find  an  excuse  in  your  example,"  she 
said,  "  if  he  is  late. " 

The  first  person  whom  Julius  saw  on  getting 
out  of  the  carriage  was  Geoffrey — with  his  tick- 
et taken,  and  his  portmanteau  in  charge  of  the 
guard. 


FOURTH  SCENE. -WIND YGATES. 
CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH. 

NEAR   IT. 

THE  Library  at  Windygates  was  the  largest 
and  the  handsomest  room  in  the  house.  The 
two  grand  divisions  under  which  Literature  is 
usually  arranged  in  these  days  occupied  the  cus- 
tomary places  in  it.  On  the  shelves  which  ran 
round  the  walls  were  the  books  which  humanity 
in  general  respects — and  does  not  read.  On  the 
tables  distributed  over  the  floor  were  the  books 
which  humanity  in  general  reads — and  does  not 
respect.  In  the  first  class,  the  works  of  the  wise 
ancients;  and  the  Histories,  Biographies,  and 
Essays  of  writers  of  more  modern  times — other- 
wise the  Solid  Literature,  which  is  universally 
respected,  and  occasionally  read.  In  the  sec- 
ond class,  the  Novels  of  our  own  day — otherwise 
the  Light  Literature,  which  is  universally  read, 
and  occasionally  respected.  At  Windygates,  as 
elsewhere,  we  believed  History  to  be  high  litera- 
ture, because  it  assumed  to  be  true  to  Author- 


ities (of  which  we  knew  little) — and  Fiction  to 
be  low  literature,  because  it  attempted  to  be  true 
to  Nature  (of  which  we  knew  less).  At  Windy- 
gates,  as  elsewhere,  we  were  always  more  or  less 
satisfied  with  ourselves,  if  we  were  publicly  dis- 
covered consulting  our  History — and  more  or  less 
ashamed  of  ourselves,  if  we  were  publicly  discov- 
ered devouring  our  Fiction.  An  architectural 
peculiarity  in  the  original  arrangement  of  the  li- 
brary favored  the  development  of  this  common 
and  curious  form  of  human  stupidity.  While  a 
row  of  luxurious  arm-chairs,  in  the  main  thor- 
oughfare of  the  room,  invited  the  reader  of  solid 
literature  to  reveal  himself  in  the  act  of  cultiva- 
ting a  virtue,  a  row  of  snug  little  curtained  re- 
cesses, opening  at  intervals  out  of  one  of  the 
walls,  enabled  the  reader  of  light  literature  to 
conceal  himself  in  the  act  of  indulging  a  vice. 
For  the  rest,  all  the  minor  accessories  of  this 
spacious  and  tranquil  place  were  as  plentiful  and 
as  well  chosen  as  the  heart  could  desire.  And 
solid  literature  and  light  literature,  and  great 
writers  and  small,  were  all  bounteously  illumin- 
ated alike  by  a  fine  broad  flow  of  the  light  of 
heaven,  pouring  into  the  room  through  windows 
that  opened  to  the  floor. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  from  the  day  of  Lady 
Lundie's  garden-party,  and  it  wanted  an  hour 
or  more  of  the  time  at  which  the  luncheon-bell 
usually  rang. 

The  guests  at  Windygates  were  most  of  them 
in  the  garden,  enjoying  the  morning  sunshine, 
after  a  prevalent  mist  and  rain  for  some  days 
past.  Two  gentlemen  (exceptions  to  the  gener- 
al rule)  were  alone  in  the  library.  They  were 
the  two  last  gentlemen  in  the  world  who  could 
possibly  be  supposed  to  have  any  legitimate  mo- 
tive for  meeting  each  other  in  a  place  of  literary 
seclusion.  One  was  Arnold  Brinkworth,  and 
the  other  was  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

They  had  arrived  together  at  Windygates  that 
morning.  Geoffrey  had  traveled  from  London 
with  his  brother  by  the  train  of  the  previous 
night.  Arnold,  delayed  in  getting  away  at  his, 
own  time,  from  his  own  property,  by  ceremonies 
incidental  to  his  position  which  were  not  to  be 
abridged  without  giving  offense  to  many  worthy 
people — had  caught  the  passing  train  early  that 
morning  at  the  station  nearest  to  him,  and  had 
returned  to  Lady  Lundie's,  as  he  had  left  Lady 
Lundie's,  in  company  with  his  friend. 

After  a  short  preliminary  interview  with 
Blanche,  Arnold  had  rejoined  Geoffrey  in  the 
safe  retirement  of  the  library,  to  say  what  was 
still  left  to  be  said  between  them  on  the  subject 
of  Anne.  Having  completed  his  report  of  events 
at  Craig  Fernie,  he  was  now  naturally  waiting  to 
hear  what  Geoffrey  had  to  say  on  his  side.  To 
Arnold's  astonishment,  Geoffrey  coolly  turned 
away  to  leave  the  library  without  uttering  a  word. 

Arnold  stopped  him  without  ceremony. 

"Not  quite  so  fast,  Geoffrey,"  he  said.  "I 
have  an  interest  in  Miss  Silvester's  welfare  as 
well  as  in  yours.  Now  you  are  back  again  in 
Scotland,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

If  Geoffrey  had  told  the  truth,  he  must  have 
stated  his  position  much  as  follows : 

He  had  necessarily  decided  on  deserting  Anne 
when  he  had  decided  on  joining  his  brother  on 
the  journey  back.  But  he  had  advanced  no  fur- 
ther than  this.  How  he  was  to  abandon  the 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


75 


woman  who  had  trusted  him,  without  seeing  his 
own  dastardly  conduct  dragged  into  the  light  of 
day,  was  more  than  he  yet  knew.  A  vague  idea 
of  at  once  pacifying  and  deluding  Anne,  by  a 
marriage  which  should  be  no  marriage  at  all,  had 
crossed  his  mind  on  the  journey.  He  had  asked 
himself  whether  a  trap  of  that  sort  might  not  be 
easily  set  in  a  country  notorious  for  the  looseness 
of  its  marriage  laws — if  a  man  only  knew  how  ? 
And  he  had  thought  it  likely  that  his  well-in- 
formed brother,  who  lived  in  Scotland,  might  be 
tricked  into  innocently  telling  him  what  he  want- 
ed to  know.  He  had  turned  the  conversation  to 
the  subject  of  Scotch  marriages  in  general  by- 
way of  trying  the  experiment.  Julius  had  not 
studied  the  question ;  Julius  knew  nothing  about 
it ;  and  there  the  experiment  had  come  to  an 
end.  As  the  necessary  result  of  the  check  thus 
encountered,  he  was  now  in  Scotland  with  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  trust  to  as  a  means  of  effecting 
his  release  but  the  chapter  of  accidents,  aided  by 
his  own  resolution  to  marry  Mrs.  Glenarm.  Such 
was  his  position,  and  such  should  have  been  the 
substance  of  his  reply  when  he  was  confronted  by 
Arnold's  question,  and  plainly  asked  what  he 
meant  to  do. 

"The  right  thing,"  he  answered,  unblushing- 
ly.  "And  no  mistake  about  it." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  yon  see  your  way  so  plain- 
ly," returned  Arnold.  "  In  your  place,  I  should 
have  been  all  abroad.  I  was  wondering,  Only 
the  other  day,  whether  you  would  end,  as  I 
should  have  ended,  in  consulting  Sir  Patrick." 

Geoffrey  eyed  him  sharply. 

"  Consult  Sir  Patrick  ?"  he  repeated.  "Why 
would  you  have  done  that  ?" 
v  "/shouldn't  have  known  how  to  set  about 
marrying  her,"  replied  Arnold.  "And — being 
in  Scotland — I  should  have  applied  to  Sir  Patrick 
(without  mentioning  names,  of  course),  because 
he  would  be  sure  to  know  all  about  it. " 

"  Suppose  I  don't  see  my  way  quite  so  plainly 
as  you  think,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Would  you  ad- 
vise me — " 

"To  consult  Sir  Patrick?  Certainly!  He 
has  passed  his  life  in  the  practice  of  the  Scotch 
law.  Didn't  you  know  that  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  take  my  advice — and  "consult  him. 
You  needn't  mention  names.  You  can  say  it's 
the  case  of  a  friend. " 

The  idea  was  a  new  one  and  a  good  one. 
Geoffrey  looked  longingly  toward  the  door.  Eager 
to  make  Sir  Patrick  his  innocent  accomplice  on 
the  spot,  he  made  a  second  attempt  to  leave  tb,e 
library  ;  and  made  it  for  the  second  time  in  vain. 
Arnold  had  more  unwelcome  inquiries  to  make, 
and  more  advice  to  give  unasked. 

"  How  have  you  arranged  about  meeting  Miss 
Silvester?"  he  went  on.  "You  can't  go  to  the 
hotel  in  the  character  of  her  husband.  I  have 
prevented  that.  Where  else  are  you  to  meet 
her?  She  is  all  alone ;  she  must  be  weary  of 
waiting,  poor  thing.  Can  you  manage  matters 
so  as  to  see  her  to-day  ?" 

After  staring  hard  at  Arnold  while  he  was 
speaking,  Geoffrey  burst  out  laughing  when  he 
had  done.  A  disinterested  anxiety  for  the  wel- 
fare of  another  person  was  one  of  those  refine- 
ments of  feeling  which  a  muscular  education  had 
not  fitted  him  to  understand. 

"I  say,  old  boy,"  he  burst  out,  "you  seem  to 


take  an  extraordinary  interest  in  Miss  Silvester ' 
You  haven't  fallen  in  love  with  her  yourself — 
have  you '!" 

' '  Come !  come ! "  said  Arnold,  seriously.  ' '  Nei- 
ther she  nor  I  deserve  to  be  sneered  at,  in  that 
way.  I  have  made  a  sacrifice  to  your  interests, 
Geoffrey — and  so  has  she. " 

Geoffrey's  face  became  serious  again.  His 
secret  was  in  Arnold's  hands ;  and  his  estimate 
of  Arnold's  character  was  founded,  unconscious- 
ly, on  his  experience  of  himself.  ' '  All  right, " 
he  said,  by  way  of  timely  apology  and  conces- 
sion. ' '  I  was  only  joking. " 

"As  much  joking  as  you  please,  when  you 
have  married  her,"  replied  Arnold.  "It  seems 
serious  enough,  to  my  mind,  till  then."  He 
stopped — considered— and  laid  his  hand  very 
earnestly  on  Geoffrey's  arm.  "Mind!"  he  re- 
sumed. ' '  You  are  not  to  breathe  a  word  to  any 
living  soul,  of  my  having  been  near  the  inn!" 

"I've  promised  to  hold  my  tongue,  once  al- 
ready. What  do  you  want  more  ?" 

"I  am  anxious,  Geoffrey.  I  was  at  Craig 
Fernie,  remember,  when  Blanche  came  there ! 
She  has  been  telling  me  all  that  happened,  poor 
darling,  in  the  firm  persuasion  that  I  was  miles 
off  at  the  time.  I  swear  I  couldn't  look  her  in 
the  face !  What  would  she  think  of  me,  if  she 
knew  the  truth  ?  Pray  be  careful !  pray  be  care- 
ful!" 

Geoffrey's  patience  began  to  fail  him. 

"We  had  all  this  out,"  he  said,  "on  the  way 
here  from  the  station.  What's  the  good  of  going 
over  the  ground  again  ?" 

"You're  quite  right,"  said  Arnold,  good-hu- 
moredly.  "The  fact  is — I'm  out  of  sorts,  this 
morning.  My  mind  misgives  me — I  don't  know 
why. " 

"  Mind  ?"  repeated  Geoffrey,  in  high  contempt. 
"It's  flesh — that's  what's  the  matter  with  you. 
You're  nigh  on  a  stone  over  your  right  weight. 
Mind  be  hanged !  A  man  in  healthy  training 
don't  know  that  he  has  got  a  mind.  Take  a 
turn  with  the  dumb-bells,  and  a  run  up  hill  with 
a  great-coat  on.  Sweat  it  off,  Arnold !  Sweat 
it  off!" 

With  that  excellent  advice,  he  turned  to  leave 
the  room  for  the  third  time.  Fate  appeared  to 
have  determined  to  keep  him  imprisoned  in  Jhe 
library,  that  morning.  On  this  occasion,  it  was 
a  servant  who  got  in  the  way — a  servant,  with  a 
letter  and  a  message.  "  The  man  waits  for  an 
answer." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  the  letter.  It  was  in  his 
brother's  handwriting.  He  had  left  Julius  at  the 
junction  about  three  hours  since.  What  could 
Julius  possibly  have  to  say  to4iim  now? 

He  opened  the  letter.  Julius  had  to  announce 
that  Fortune  was  favoring  them  already.  He 
had  heard  news  of  Mrs.  Glenarm,  -as  soon  as  he 
reached  home.  She  had  called  on  his  wife,  dur- 
ing his  absence  in  London — she  had  been  invited 
to  the  house — and  she  had  promised  to  accept 
the  invitation  early  in  the  week.  "Early  in  the 
week,"  Julius  wrote,  "may  mean  to-morrow. 
Make  your  apologies  to  Lady  Lundie ;  and  take 
care  not  to  offend  her.  Say  that  family  reasons, 
which  you  hope  soon  to  have  the  pleasure  of  con- 
fiding to  her,  oblige  yon  to  appeal  once  more  to 
her  indulgence — and  come  to-morrow,  and  help 
us  to  receive  Mrs.  Gleuarm. " 

Even  Geoffrey  was  startled,  when  he  found 


76 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


himself  met  by  a  sudden  necessity  for  acting  on 
his  own  decision.  Anne  knew  where  his  brother 
lived.  Suppose  Anne  (not  knowing  where  else 
to  find  him)  appeared  at  his  brother's  house,  and 
claimed  him  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Glenarm  ? 
He  gave  orders  to  have  the  messenger  kept  wait- 
ing, and  said  he  would  send  back  a  written  re- 

ply. 

"From  Craig  Fernie?"  asked  Arnold,  point- 
ing to  the  letter  in  his  friend's  hand. 

Geoffrey  looked  up  with  a  frown.  He  had 
just  opened  his  lips  to  answer  that  ill-timed  ref- 
erence to  Anne,  in  no  very  friendly  terms,  when 
a  voice,  calling  to  Arnold  from  the  lawn  outside, 
announced  the  appearance  of  a  third  person  in 
the  library,  and  warned  the  two  gentlemen  that 
their  private  interview  was  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH. 

NEARER    STILL. 

BLANCHE  stepped  lightly  into  the  room,  through 
one  of  the  open  French  windows. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  said  to  Ar- 
nold. 

' '  Nothing.  I  was  just  going  to  look  for  you 
in  the  garden." 

"The  garden  is  insufferable,  this  morning." 
Saying  those  words,  she  fanned  herself  with  her 
handkerchief,  and  noticed  Geoffrey's  presence  in 
the  room  with  a  look  of  very  thinly-concealed 
annoyance  at  the  discovery.  "Wait  till  I  am 
married!"  she  thought.  "Mr.  Delamayn  will 
be  cleverer  than  I  take  him  to  be,  if  he  gets  much 
of  his  friend's  company  then  /" 

"A  trifle  too  hot — eh?"  said  Geoffrey,  seeing 
her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  supposing  that  he 
was  expected  to  say  something. 

Having  performed  that  duty,  he  walked  away 
without  waiting  for  a  reply ;  and  seated  himself, 
with  his  letter,  at  one  of  the  writing-tables  in  the 
library. 

' '  Sir  Patrick  is  quite  right  about  the  young 
men  of  the  present  day,"  said  Blanche,  turning 
to  Arnold.  "  Here  is  this  one  asks  me  a  ques- 
tion, and  doesn't  wait  for  an  answer.  There  are 
three  more  of  them,  out  in  the  garden,  who  have 
been  talking  of  nothing,  for  the  last  hour,  but 
the  pedigrees  of  horses  and  the  muscles  of  men. 
When  we  are  married,  Arnold,  don't  present  any 
of  your  male  friends  to  me,  unless  they  have 
turned  fifty.  What  shall  we  do  till  luncheon- 
time?  It's  cool  and  quiet  in  here  among  the 
books.  I  want  a  mild  excitement — and  I  have 
got  absolutely  nothing  to  do.  Suppose  you  read 
me  some  poetry  ?" 

"While  he  is  here?"  asked  Arnold,  pointing 
to  the  personified  antithesis  of  poetry — otherwise 
to  Geoffrey,  seated  with  his  back  to  them  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  library. 

"Pooh!"  said  Blanche.  "There's  only  an 
animal  in  the  room.  We  needn't  mind  him  /" 

"I  say!"  exclaimed  Arnold.  "You're  as 
bitter,  this  morning,  as  Sir  Patrick  himself. 
What  will  you  say  to  Me  when  we  are  married, 
if  you  talk  in  that  way  of  my  friend  ?" 

Blanche  stole  her  hand  into  Arnold's  hand, 
and  gave  it  a  little  significant  squeeze.  "I  shall 
always  be  nice  to  you,"  she  whispered — with  a 
look  that  contained  a  host  of  pretty  promises  in 


itself.  Arnold  returned  the  look  (Geoffrey  was 
unquestionably  in  the  way!).  Their  eyes  met 
tenderly  (why  couldn't  the  great  awkward  brute 
write  his  letters  somewhere  else  ?).  With  a  faint 
little  sigh,  Blanche  dropped  resignedly  into  one 
of  the  comfortable  arm-chairs — and  asked  once 
more  for  "  some  poetry,"  in  a  voice  that  faltered 
softly,  and  with  a  color  that  was  brighter  than 
usual. 

' '  Whose  poetry  am  I  to  read  ?"  inquired  Ar- 
nold. 

"Anybody's,"  said  Blanche.  "This  is  an- 
other of  my  Impulses.  I  am  dying  for  some 
poetry.  I  don't  know  whose  poetry.  And  I 
don't  know  why." 

Arnold  went  straight  to  the  nearest  book -shelf, 
and  took  down  the  first  volume  that  his  hand 
lighted  on — a  solid  quarto,  bound  in  sober  brown. 

"Well?"  asked  Blanche.  "What  have  you 
found  ?" 

Arnold  opened  the  volume,  and  conscientious- 
ly read  the  title  exactly  as  it  stood : 

' '  Paradise  Lost.  A  Poem.    By  John  Milton. " 

"I  have  never  read  Milton,"  said  Blanche. 
"Have  you?" 

"No." 

"Another  instance  of  sympathy  between  us. 
No  educated  person  ought  to  be  ignorant  of  Mil- 
ton. Let  us  be  educated  persons.  Please  be- 
gin." 

"At  the  beginning?" 

"  Of  course !  Stop !  You  musn't  sit  all  that 
way  off — you  must  sit  where  I  can  look  at  you. 
My  attention  wanders  if  I  don't  look  at  people 
while  they  read." 

Arnold  took  a  stool  at  Blanche's  feet,  and 
opened  the  "  First  Book"  of  Paradise  Lost.  His 
"  system"  as  a  reader  of  blank  verse  was  simplic- 
ity itself.  In  poetry  we  are  some  of  us  (as  many 
living  poets  can  testify)  all  for  sound ;  and  some 
of  us  (as  few  living  poets  can  testify)  all  for  sense. 
Arnold  was  for  sound.  He  ended  every  line  in- 
exorably with  a  full  stop ;  and  he  got  on  to  his 
full  stop  as  fast  as  the  inevitable  impediment  of 
the  words  would  let  him.  He  began : 

"Of  Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit. 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste. 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden  till  one  greater  Man. 
Restore  us  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 
Sing  heavenly  Muse—" 

"Beautiful !"  said  Blanche.  "What  a  shame 
it  seems  to  have  had  Milton  all  this  time  in  the 
library  and  never  to  have  read  him  yet !  We 
will  have  Mornings  with  Milton,  Arnold.  He 
seems  long ;  but  we  are  both  young,  and  we  may 
live  to  get  to  the  end  of  him.  Do  you  know, 
dear,  now  I  look  at  you  again,  you  don't  seem  to 
have  come  back  to  Windygates  in  good  spirits." 

' '  Don't  I  ?     I  can't  account  for  it. " 

"I  can.  It's  sympathy  with  Me.  I  am  out 
of  spirits  too. " 

"You!" 

"Yes.  After  what  I  saw  at  Craig  Fernie,  I 
grow  more  and  more  uneasy  about  Anne.  You 
will  understand  that,  I  am  sure,  after  what  I  told 
you  this  morning?" 

Arnold  looked  back,  in  a  violent  hurry,  from 
Blanche  to  Milton.  That  renewed  reference  to 
events  at  Craig  Fernie  was  a  renewed  reproach 
to  him  for  his  conduct  at  the  inn.  He  attempt- 
ed to  silence  her  by  pointing  to  Geoffrey. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


77 


"ARNOLD  TOOK  A  STOOL  AT  BLANCHE'S  FEET,  AND  OPENED  THE  'FIRST  BOOK'  OF 

PARADISE  LOST." 


"Don't  forget,"  he  whispered,  "that  there  is 
somebody  in  the  room  besides  ourselves." 

Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders  contemptu- 
ously. 

' '  What  does  he  matter  ?"  she  asked.  ' '  What 
does  he  know  or  care  about  Anne  ?" 

There  was  only  one  other  chance  of  diverting 
her  from  the  delicate  subject.  Arnold  went  on 
reading  headlong,  two  lines  in  advance  of  the 
place  at  which  he  had  left  off,  with  more  sound 
and  less  sense  than  ever : 

"In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth. 
Rose  out  of  Chaos  or  if  Sion  hill — " 

At  "Sion  hill, "Blanche  interrupted  him  again. 

"Do  wait  a  little,  Arnold.  I  can't  have  Mil- 
ton crammed  down  my  throat  in  that  way.  Be- 
sides I  had  something  to  say.  Did  I  tell  you 
that  I  consulted  my  uncle  about  Anne  ?  I  don't 
think  I  did.  I  caught  him  alone  in  this  very 
room.  I  told  him  all  I  have  told  you.  I  showed 
him  Anne's  letter.  And  I  said,  '  What  do  you 
think  ?'  He  took  a  little  time  (and  a  great  deal 
of  snuff)  before  he  would  say  what  he  thought. 
When  he  did  speak,  he  told  me  I  might  quite 
possibly  be  right  in  suspecting  Anne's  husband 
to  be  a  very  abominable  person.  His  keeping 
himself  out  of  my  way  was  (just  as  I  thought)  a 
suspicious  circumstance,  to  begin  with.  And 
then  there  was  the  sudden  extinguishing  of  the 
candles,  when  I  first  went  in.  I  thought  (and 
Mrs.  Inchbare  thought)  it  was  done  by  the  wind. 
Sir  Patrick  suspects  it  was  done  by  the -horrid 
man  himself,  to  prevent  me  from  seeing  him  when 
I  entered  the  room.  I  am  firmly  persuaded  Sir 
Patrick  is  right.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  think  we  had  better  go  on,"  said  Arnold, 


with  his  head  down  over  his  book.  ' '  We  seem 
to  be  forgetting  Milton. " 

"  How  you  do  worry  about  Milton !  That  last 
bit  wasn't  as  interesting  as  the  other.  Is  there 
any  love  in  Paradise  Lost?" 

"Perhaps  we  may  find  some  if  we  go  on." 

"Very  well,  then.  Go  on.  And  be  quick 
about  it." 

Arnold  was  so  quick  about  it  that  he  lost  his 
place.  Instead  of  going  on  he  went  back.  He 
read  once  more : 

"In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth. 
Rose  out  of  Chaos  or  if  Sion  hill — " 

"  You  read  that  before,"  said  Blanche. 

"I  think  not." 

"  I'm  sure  you  did.  When  yon  said  '  Sion  hill' 
I  recollect  I  thought  of  the  Methodists  directly. 
I  couldn't  have  thought  of  the  Methodists  if  you 
hadn't  said  'Sion  hill.'  It  stands  to  reason." 

"I'll  try  the  next  page,"  said  Arnold.  "I 
can't  have  read  that  before — for  I  haven't  turned 
over  yet." 

Blanche  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and 
flung  her  handkerchief  resignedly  over  her  face. 
"  The  flies,"  she  explained.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
sleep.  Try  the  next  page.  Oh,  dear  me,  try 
the  next  page !" 

Arnold  proceeded : 
"Say  first  for  heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy  view. 

Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell  say  first  what  cause. 
Moved  our  grand  parents  in  that  happy  state—" 

Blanche  suddenly  threw  the  handkerchief  off 
again,  and  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  chair.  "  Shut 
it  up,"  she  cried.  "I  can't  bear  any  more. 
Leave  off,  Arnold — leave  off!" 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 


78 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


' ' '  That  happy  state, ' "  said  Blanche.  ' '  What 
does  '  that  happy  state'  mean  ?  Marriage,  of 
course !  And  marriage  reminds  me  of  Anne.  I 
won't  have  any  more.  Paradise  Lost  is  painful. 
Shut  it  up.  Well,  my  next  question  to  Sir  Pat- 
rick was,  of  course,  to  know  what  he  thought 
Anne's  husband  had  done.  The  wretch  had  be- 
haved infamously  to  her  in  some  way.  In  what 
way  ?  Was  it  any  thing  to  do  with  her  mar- 
riage ?  My  uncle  considered  again.  He  thought 
it  quite  possible.  Private  marriages  were  dan- 
gerous things  (he  said) — especially  in  Scotland. 
He  asked  me  if  they  had  been  married  in  Scot- 
land. I  couldn't  tell  him — I  only  said,  '  Suppose 
they  were  ?  What  then  ?'  '  It's  barely  possible, 
in  that  case, '  says  Sir  Patrick,  '  that  Miss  Silves- 
ter may  be  feeling  uneasy  about  her  marriage. 
She  may  even  have  reason — or  may  think  she 
has  reason — to  doubt  whether  it  is  a  marriage  at 
all.'" 

Arnold  started,  and  looked  round  at  Geoffrey 
still  sitting  at  the  writing-table  with  his  back 
turned  on  them.  Utterly  as  Blanche  and  Sir 
Patrick  were  mistaken  in  their  estimate  of  Anne's 
position  at  Craig  Fernie,  they  had  drifted,  nev- 
ertheless, into  discussing  the  very  question  in 
which  Geoffrey  and  Miss  Silvester  were  inter- 
ested—  the  question  of  marriage  in  Scotland. 
It  was  impossible  in  Blanche's  presence  to  tell 
Geoffrey  that  he  might  do  well  to  listen  to  Sir 
Patrick's  opinion,  even  at  second-hand.  Per- 
haps the  words  had  found  their  way  to  him  ?  per- 
haps he  was  listening  already,  of  his  own  ac- 
cord? 

(He  was  listening.  Blanche's  last  words  had 
found  their  way  to  him,  while  he  was  pondering 
over  his  half-finished  letter  to  his  brother.  He 
waited  to  hear  more — without  moving,  and  with 
the  pen  suspended  in  his  hand.) 

Blanche  proceeded,  absently  winding  her  fin- 
gers in  and  out  of  Arnold's  hair  as  he  sat  at  her 
feet: 

"It  flashed  on  me  instantly  that  Sir  Patrick 
had  discovered  the  truth.  Of  course  I  told  him 
so.  He  laughed,  and  said  I  mustn't  jump  at 
conclusions.  We  were  guessing  quite  in  the 
dark ;  and  all  the  distressing  things  I  had  no- 
ticed at  the  inn  might  admit  of  some  totally  dif- 
ferent explanation.  He  would  have  gone  on 
splitting  straws  in  that  provoking  way  the  whole 
morning  if  I  hadn't  stopped  him.  I  was  strictly 
logical.  I  said  /  had  seen  Anne,  and  he  hadn't 
— and  that  made  all  the  difference.  I  said,  'Ev- 
ery thing  that  puzzled  and  frightened  me  in  the 
poor  darling  is  accounted  for  now.  The  law 
must,  and  shall,  reach  that  man,  uncle — and  I'll 
pay  for  it !'  I  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  I  be- 
lieve I  cried  a  little.  What  do  you  think  the 
dear  old  man  did?  He  took  me  on  his  knee 
and  gave  me  a  kiss ;  and  he  said,  in  the  nicest 
way,  that  he  would  adopt  my  view,  for  the  pres- 
ent, if  I  would  promise  not  to  cry  any  more ; 
and — wait !  the  cream  of  it  is  to  come ! — that  he 
would  put  the  view  in  quite  a  new  light  to  me  as 
soon  as  I  was  composed  again.  You  may  imag- 
ine how  soon  I  dried  my  eyes,  and  what  a  picture 
of  composure  I  presented  in  the  course  of  half  a 
minute.  'Let  us  take  it  for  granted,'  says  Sir 
Patrick,  '  that  this  man  unknown  has  really  tried 
to  deceive  Miss  Silvester,  as  you  and  I  suppose. 
I  can  tell  you  one  thing:  it's  as  likely  as  not 
that,  in  trying  to  overreach  her,  he  may  (with- 


out in  the  least  suspecting  it)  have  ended  in  over- 
reaching himself.' " 

(Geoffrey  held  his  breath.  The  pen  dropped 
unheeded  from  his  fingers.  It  was  coming! 
The  light  that  his  brother  couldn't  throw  on  the 
subject  was  dawning  on  it  at  last !) 

Blanche  resumed : 

"  I  was  so  interested,  and  it  made  such  a  tre- 
mendous impression  on  me,  that  I  haven't  for- 
gotten a  word.  '  I  mustn't  make  that  poor  little 
head  of  yours  ache  with  Scotch  law,'  my  uncle 
said ;  '  I  must  put  it  plainly.  There  are  mar- 
riages allowed  in  Scotland,  Blanche,  which  are 
called  Irregular  Marriages — and  very  abomin- 
able things  they  are.  But  they  have  this  acci- 
dental merit  in  the  present  case.  It  is  extreme- 
ly difficult  for  a  man  to  pretend  to  marry  in 
Scotland,  and  not  really  to  do  it.  And  it  is,  on 
the  other  hand,  extremely  easy  for  a  man  to 
drift  into  marrying  in  Scotland  without  feeling 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  having  done  it  him- 
self.' That  was  exactly  what  he  said,  Arnold. 
When  we  are  married,  it  sha'n't  be  in  Scot- 
land!" 

(Geoffrey's  ruddy  color  paled.  If  this  was  true, 
he  might  be  caught  himself  in  the  trap  which  he 
had  schemed  to  set  for  Anne !  Blanche  went  on 
with  her  narrative.  He  waited  and  listened. ) 

"My  uncle  asked  me  if  I  understood  him  so 
far.  It  was  as  plain  as  the  sun  at  noonday , 
of  course  I  understood  him !  '  Very  well,  then 
— now  for  the  application!'  says  Sir  Patrick. 
'  Once  more  supposing  our  guess  to  be  the  right 
one,  Miss  Silvester  may  be  making  herself  very 
unhappy  without  any  real  cause.  If  this  invis- 
ible man  at  Craig  Fernie  has  actually  meddled, 
I  won't  say  with  marrying  her,  but  only  with 
pretending  to  make  her  his  wife,  and  if  he  has 
attempted  it  in  Scotland,  the  chances  are  nine  to 
one  (though  fie  may  not  believe  it,  and  though 
she  may  not  believe  it)  that  he  has  really  mar- 
ried her,  after  all. '  My  uncle's  own  words  again ! 
Quite  needless  to  say  that,  half  an  hour  after 
they  were  out  of  his  lips,  I  had  sent  them  to 
Craig  Fernie  in  a  letter  to  Anne !" 

(Geoffrey's  stolidly-staring  eyes  suddenly  bright- 
ened. A  light  of  the  devil's  own  striking  illu- 
minated him.  An  idea  of  the  devil's  own  bring- 
ing entered  his  mind.  He  looked  stealthily 
round  at  the  man  whose  life  he  had  saved — at 
the  man  who  had  devotedly  served  him  in  return. 
A  hideous  cunning  leered  at  his  mouth  and  peep- 
ed out  of  his  eyes.  "Arnold  Brinkworth  pre- 
tended to  be  married  to  her  at  the  inn.  By  the 
lord  Harry !  that's  a  way  out  of  it  that  never 
struck  me  before!"  With  that  thought  in  his 
heart  he  turned  back  again  to  his  half-finished 
letter  to  Julius.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was 
strongly,  fiercely  agitated.  For  once  in  his  life 
he  was  daunted — and  that  by  his  Own  Thought ! 
He  had  written  to  Julius  under  a  strong  sense 
of  the  necessity  of  gaining  time  to  delude  Anne 
into  leaving  Scotland  before  he  ventured  on  pay- 
ing his  addresses  to  Mrs.  Glenarm.  His  letter 
contained  a  string  of  clumsy  excuses,  intended 
to  delay  his  return  to  his  brother's  house.  ' '  No," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  read  it  again.  "What- 
ever else  may  do — this  won't!"  He  looked 
round  once  more  at  Arnold,  and  slowly  tore  the 
letter  into  fragments  as  he  looked.) 

In  the  mean  time  Blanche  had  not  done  yet. 
"No,"  she  said,  when  Arnold  proposed  an  ad- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


79 


journment  to  the  garden;  "I  have  something 
more  to  say,  and  you  are  interested  in  it,  this 
time."  Arnold  resigned  himself  to  listen,  and, 
worse  still,  to  answer,  if  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  in  the  character  of  an  innocent  stranger  who 
had  never  been  near  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. 

"Well,"  Blanche  resumed,  "and  what  do  you 
think  has  come  of  my  letter  to  Anne  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Nothing  has  come  of  it!" 

"Indeed  ?" 

"Absolutely  nothing!  I  know  she  received 
the  letter  yesterday  morning,  I  ought  to  have 
had  the  answer  to-day  at  breakfast." 

"Perhaps  she  thought  it  didn't  require  an 
answer. " 

"She  couldn't  have  thought  that,  for  reasons 
that  I  know  of.  Besides,  in  my  letter  yesterday, 
I  implored  her  to  tell  me  (if  it  was  one  line  only) 
whether,  in  guessing  at  what  her  trouble  was, 
Sir  Patrick  and  I  had  not  guessed  right.  And 
here  is  the  day  getting  on,  and  no  answer !  What 
am  I  to  conclude  ?" 

"  I  really  can't  say !" 

"Is  it  possible,  Arnold,  that  we  have  not 
guessed  right,  after  all  ?  Is  the  wickedness  of 
that  man  who  blew  the  candles  out  wickedness 
beyond  our  discovering  ?  The  doubt  is  so  dread- 
ful that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  bear  it 
after  to-day.  I  count  on  your  sympathy  and 
assistance  when  to-morrow  comes!" 

Arnold's  heart  sank.  Some  new  complication 
was  evidently  gathering  round  him.  He  waited 
in  silence  to  hear  the  worst.  Blanche  bent  for- 
ward, and  whispered  to  him. 

"  This  is  a  secret,"  she  said.  "  If  that  creat- 
ure at  the  writing-table  has  ears  for  any  thing 
but  rowing  and  racing,  he  mustn't  hear  this! 
Anne  may  come  to  me  privately  to-day  while 
you  are  all  at  luncheon.  If  she  doesn't  come, 
and  if  I  don't  hear  from  her,  then  the  mystery 
of  her  silence  must  be  cleared  up ;  and  You 
must  do  it!" 

"I!" 

"Don't  make  difficulties!  If  you  can't  find 
your  way  to  Craig  Fernie,  I  can  help  you.  As 
for  Anne,  you  know  what  a  charming  person 
she  is,  and  you  know  she  will  receive  you  per- 
fectly, for  my  sake.  I  must  and  will  have  some 
news  of  her.  I  can't  break  the  laws  of  the  house- 
hold a  second  time.  Sir  Patrick  sympathizes,  but 
he  won't  stir.  Lady  Lundie  is  a  bitter  enemy. 
The  servants  are  threatened  with  the  loss  of 
their  places  if  any  one  of  them  goes  near  Anne. 
There  is  nobody  but  you.  And  to  Anne  you  go 
to-morrow,  if  I  don't  see  her  or  hear  from  her 
to-day!" 

This  to  the  man  who  had  passed  as  Anne's 
husband  at  the  inn,  and  who  had  been  forced 
into  the  most  intimate  knowledge  of  Anne's  mis- 
erable secret !  Arnold  rose  to  put  Milton  away, 
with  the  composure  of  sheer  despair.  Any  other 
secret  he  might,  in  the  last  resort,  have  confided 
to  the  discretion  of  a  third  person.  Bur  a  wo- 
man's secret — with  a  woman's  reputation  de- 
pending on  his  keeping  it — was  not  to  be  con- 
fided to  any  body,  under  any  stress  of  circum- 
stances whatever.  "  If  Geoffrey  doesn't  get  me 
out  of  this,"  he  thought,  "  I  shall  have  no  choice 
but  to  leave  Windygates  to-morrow." 

As  he  replaced  the  book  on  the  shelf,  Lady 
Lundie  entered  the  library  from  the  garden. 


"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  said  to  her 
step-daughter. 

"Improving  my  mind,"  replied  Blanche. 
"Mr.  Brinkworth  and  I  have  been  reading 
Milton." 

"Can  you  condescend  so  far,  after  reading 
Milton  all  the  morning,,  as  to  help  me  with  the 
invitations  for  the  dinner  next  week  ?" 

"If  you  can  condescend,  Lady  Lundie,  after 
feeding  the  poultry  all  the  morning,  I  must  be 
humility  itself  after  only  reading  Milton !" 

With  that  little  interchange  of  the  acid  ameni- 
ties of  feminine  intercourse,  step-mother  and 
step  -  daughter  withdrew  to  a  writing-table,  to 
put  the  virtue  of  hospitality  in  practice  together. 

Arnold  joined  his  friend  at  the  other  end  of 
the  library. 

Geoffrey  was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the 
desk,  and  his  clenched  fists  dug  into  his  cheeks. 
Great  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead, 
and  the  fragments  of  a  torn  letter  lay  scattered 
all  round  him.  He  exhibited  symptoms  of  nerv- 
ous sensibility  for  the  first  time  in  his  life — he 
started  when  Arnold  spoke  to  him. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Geoffrey  ?"  • 

' '  A  letter  to  answer.    And  I  don't  know  how. " 

"From  Miss  Silvester?"  asked  Arnold,  drop- 
ping his  voice  so  as  to  prevent  the  ladies  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room  from  hearing  him. 

' '  No, "  answered  Geoffrey,  in  a  lower  voice  still. 

"  Have  you  heard  what  Blanche  has  been  say- 
ing to  me  about  Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"Some  of  it." 

"  Did  you  hear  Blanche  say  that  she  meant  to 
send  me  to  Craig  Fernie  to-morrow,  if  she  failed 
to  get  news  from  Miss  Silvester  to-day  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  yon  know  it  now.  That  is  what 
Blanche  has  just  said  to  me." 

"Well?" 

"  Well — there's  a  limit  to  what  a  man  can  ex- 
pect even  from  his  best  friend.  I  hope  you  won't 
ask  me  to  be  Blanche's  messenger  to-morrow.  I 
can't,  and  won't,  go  back  to  the  inn  as  things  are 
now." 

"  You  have  had  enough  of  it — eh  ?" 

"I  have  had  enough  of  distressing  Miss  Sil- 
vester, and  more  than  enough  of  deceiving 
Blanche. " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'distressing  Miss 
Silvester  ?' " 

"  She  doesn't  take  the  same  easy  view  that 
you  and  I  do,  Geoffrey,  of  my  passing  her  off  on 
the  people  of  the  inn  as  my  wife." 

Geoffrey  absently  took  up  a  paper-knife.  Still 
with  his  head  down,  he  began  shaving  off  the 
topmost  layer  of  paper  from  the  blotting-pad 
under  his  hand.  Still  with  his  head  down,  he 
abruptly  broke  the  silence  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  say !"  ^ 

"Yes?" 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  pass  her  off  as  your 
wife  ?" 

"  I  told  you  how,  as  we  were  driving  from  the 
station  here. " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Tell  me 
again." 

Arnold  told  him  once  more  what  had  hap- 
pened at  the  inn.  Geoffrey  listened,  without 
making  any  remark.  He  balanced  the  paper- 
knife  vacantly  on  one  of  his  fingers.  He  was 
strangely  sluggish  and  strangely  silent. 


80 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"All  that  is  done  and  ended,"  said  Arnold, 
shaking  him  by  the  shoulder.  "It  rests  with 
you  now  to  get  me  out  of  the  difficulty  I'm  placed 
in  with  Blanche.  Things  must  be  settled  with 
Miss  Silvester  to-day." 

"Things  shall  be  settled. 

"  Shall  be ?     What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"I'm  waiting  to  do  what  you  told  me." 

"  What  I  told  you  ?" 

"Didn't  you  tell  irie  to  consult  Sir  Patrick 
before  I  married  her?" 

"  To  be  sure !  so  I  did." 

"Well— I  am  waiting  for  a  chance  with  Sir 
Patrick." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"And  then — "  He  looked  at  Arnold  for  the 
first  time.  "Then,"  he  said,  "you  may  con- 
sider it  settled. " 

"The  marriage?" 

He  suddenly  looked  down  again  at  the  blot- 
ting-pad. "Yes — the  marriage." 

Arnold  offered  his  hand  in  congratulation. 
Geoffrey  never  noticed  it.  His  eyes  were  off  the 
blotting-pad  again.  He  was  looking  out  of  the 
window  near  him. 

"Don't  I  hear  voices  outside?"  he  asked. 

"I  believe  our  friends  are  in  the  garden,"  said 
Arnold.  "  Sir  Patrick  may  be  among  them.  I'll 
go  and  see." 

The  instant  his  back  was  turned  Geoffrey 
snatched  up  a  sheet  of  note-paper.  "  Before  I 
forget  it!"  he  said  to  himself.  He  wrote  the 
word  "  Memorandum"  at  the  top  of  the  page, 
and  added  these  lines  beneath  it : 

"  He  asked  for  her  by  the  name  of  his  wife  at 
the  door.  He  said,  at  dinner,  before  the  land- 
lad}'  and  the  waiter,  '  I  take  these  rooms  for  my 
wife.'  He  made  her  say  he  was  her  husband  at 
the  same  time.  After  that  he  stopped  all  night. 
What  do  the  lawyers  call  this  in  Scotland? — 
(Query :  a  marriage  ?)" 

After  folding  up  the  paper  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  "No!"  he  thought.  "  It  won't«do  to 
trust  to  what  Miss  Lundie  said  about  it.  I  can't  be 
certain  till  I  have  consulted  Sir  Patrick  himself. " 

He  put  the  paper  away  in  his  pocket,  and 
wiped  the  heavy  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 
He  was  pale — for  him,  strikingly  pale — when  Ar- 
nold came  back. 

"  Any  thing  wrong,  Geoffrey  ? — you're  as  white 
as  ashes." 

"It's  the  heat.     Where's  Sir  Patrick ?" 

"  You  may  see  for  yourself." 

Arnold  pointed  to  the  window.  Sir  Patrick 
was  crossing  the  lawn,  on  his  way  to  the  library, 
with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand ;  and  the  guests  at 
Windygates  were  accompanying  him.  Sir  Pat- 
rick was  smiling,  and  saying  nothing.  The 
guests  were  talking  excitedly  at  the  tops  of  their 
voices.  There  had  apparently  been  a  collision  of 
some  kind  between  the  old  school  and  the  new. 
Arnold  directed  Geoffrey's  attention  to  the  state 
of  affairs  on  the  lawn. 

"  How  are  you  to  consult  Sir  Patrick  with  all 
those  people  about  him  ?" 

"I'll  consult  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  take  him  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck  and  carry  him  into  the  next 
county !"  He  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke  those 
words,  and  emphasized  them  under  his  breath 
with  an  oath. 

Sir  Patrick  entered  the  library,  with  the  guests 
at  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINETEENTH. 

CLOSE   ON   IT. 

THE  object  of  the  invasion  of  the  library  by  the 
party  in  the  garden  appeared  to  be  twofold. 

Sir  Patrick  had  entered  the  room  to  restore 
the  newspaper  to  the  place  from  which  he  had 
taken  it.  The  guests,  to  the  number  of  five,  had 
followed  him,  to  appeal  in  a  body  to  Geoffrey 
Delamayn.  Between  these  two  apparently  dis- 
similar motives  there  was  a  connection,  not  visi- 
ble on  the  surface,  which  was  now  to  assert  itself. 

Of  the  five  guests,  two  were  middle-aged  gen- 
tlemen belonging  to  that  large,  but  indistinct,  di- 
vision of  the  human  family  whom  the  hand  of 
Nature  has  painted  in  unobtrusive  neutral  tint. 
They  had  absorbed  the  ideas  of  their  time  with 
such  receptive  capacity  as  they  possessed ;  and 
they  occupied  much  the  same  place  in  society 
which  the  chorus  in  an  opera  occupies  on  the 
stage.  They  echoed  the  prevalent  sentiment  of 
the  moment ;  and  they  gave  the  solo-talker  time 
to  fetch  his  breath. 

The  three  remaining  guests  were  on  the  right 
side  of  thirty.  All  profoundly  versed  in  horse- 
racing,  in  athletic  sports,  in  pipes,  beer,  billiards, 
•and  betting.  All  profoundly  ignorant  of  every 
thing  else  under  the  sun.  All  gentlemen  by  birth, 
and  all  marked  as  such  by  the  stamp  of  "  a  Uni- 
versity education."  They  may  be  personally 
described  as  faint  reflections  of  Geoffrey ;  and 
they  may  be  numerically  distinguished  (in  the 
absence  of  all  other  distinction  J  as  One,  Two, 
and  Three. 

Sir  Patrick  laid  the  newspaper  on  the  table, 
and  placed  himself  in  one  of  the  comfortable 
arm-chairs.  He  was  instantly  assailed,  in  his 
domestic  capacity,  by  his  irrepressible  sister-in- 
law.  Lady  Lundie  dispatched  Blanche  to  him 
with  the  list  of  her  guests  at  the  dinner.  "  For 
your  uncle's  approval,  my  dear,  as  head  of  the 
family." 

While  Sir  Patrick  was  looking  over  the  list, 
and  while  Arnold  was  making  his  way  to  Blanche, 
at  the  back  of  her  uncle's  chair,  One,  Two,  and 
Three — with  the  Chorus  in  attendance  on  them 
— descended  in  a  body  on  Geoffrey,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  and  appealed  in  rapid  succes- 
sion to  his  superior  authority,  as  follows  : 

"  I  say,  Delamayn.  We  want  You.  Here  is 
Sir  Patrick  running  a  regular  Muck  at  us.  Calls 
us  aboriginal  Britons.  Tells  us  we  ain't  edu- 
cated. Doubts  if  we  could  read,  write,  and  ci- 
pher, if  he  tried  us.  Swears  he's  sick  of  fellows 
showing  their  arms  and  legs,  and  seeing  which 
fellow's  hardest,  and  who's  got  three  belts  of 
muscle  across  his  wind,  and  who  hasn't,  and  the 
like  of  that.  Says  a  most  infernal  thing  of  a 
chap.  Says — because  a  chap  likes  a  healthy  out- 
of-door  life,  and  trains  for  rowing  and  running, 
and  the  rest  of  it,  and  don't  see  his  way  to  stew- 
ing over  his  books — therefore  he's  safe  to  commit 
all  the  crimes  in  the  calendar,  murder  included. 
Saw  your  name  down  in  the  newspaper  for  the 
Foot-Race ;  and  said,  when  we  asked  him  if  he'd 
taken  the  odds,  he'd  lay  any  odds  we  liked  against 
you  in  the  other  Race  at  the  University — mean- 
ing, old  boy,  your  Degree.  Nasty,  that  about 
the  Degree — in  the  opinion  of  Number  One. 
Bad  taste  in  Sir  Patrick  to  rake  up  what  we  nev- 
er mention  among  ourselves — in  the  opinion  of 
Number  Two.  Un-English  to  sneer  at  a  man  in 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


81 


that  way  behind  his  back — in  the  opinion  of 
Number  Three.  Bring  him  to  book,  Delamayn. 
Your  name's  in  the  papers ;  he  can't  ride  rough- 
shod over  You." 

The  two  choral  gentlemen  agreed  (in  the  minor 
key)  with  the  general  opinion.  "  Sir  Patrick's 
views  are  certainly  extreme,  Smith  ?"  "  I  think, 
Jones,  it's  desirable  to  hear  Mr.  Delamayn  on 
the  other  side. " 

Geoffrey  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
admirers  with  an  expression  on  his  face  which 
was  quite  new  to  them,  and  with  something  in 
his  manner  which  puzzled  them  all. 

"  You  can't  argue  with  Sir  Patrick  your- 
selves," he  said,  "and  you  want  me  to  do  it ?" 

One,  Two,  Three,  and  the  Chorus  all  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  I  won't  do  it." 

One,  Two,  Three,  and  the  Chorus  all  asked, 
"Why?" 

"Because,"  answered  Geoffrey,  "you're  all 
wrong.  And  Sir  Patrick's  right." 

Not  astonishment  only,  but  downright  stupe- 
faction, struck  the  deputation  from  the  garden 
speechless. 

Without  saying  a  word  more  to  any  of  the  per- 
sons standing  near  him,  Geoffrey  walked  straight 
up  to  Sir  Patrick's  arm-chair,  and  personally  ad- 
dressed him.  The  satellites  followed,  and  list- 
ened (as  well  they  might)  in  wonder. 

"You  will  lay  any  odds,  Sir,"  said  Geoffrey, 
"against  me  taking  my  Degree?  You're  quite 
right.  I  sha'n't  take  my  Degree.  You  doubt 
whether  I,  or  any  of  those  fellows  behind  me, 
could  read,  write,  and  cipher  correctly  if  you  tried 
us.  You're  right  again — we  couldn't.  You  say 
you  don't  know  why  men  like  Me,  and  men  like 
Them,  may  not  begin  with  rowing  and  running, 
and  the  like  of  that,  and  end  in  committing  all 
the  crimes  in  the  calendar :  murder  included. 
Well !  you  may  be  right  again  there.  Who's  to 
know  what  may  happen  to  him  ?  or  what  he  may 
not  end  in  doing  before  he  dies  ?  It  may  be  An- 
other, or  it  may  be  Me.  How  do  I  know  ?  and 
how  do  you  ?"  He  suddenly  turned  on  the  deputa- 
tion, standing  thunder-struck  behind  him.  "If 
you  want  to  know  what  I  think,  there  it  is  for 
you,  in  plain  words." 

There  was  something,  not  only  in  the  shame- 
lessness  of  the  declaration  itself,  but  in  the  fierce 
pleasure  that  the  speaker  seemed  to  feel  in  mak- 
ing it,  which  struck  the  circle  of  listeners,  Sir 
Patrick  included,  with  a  momentary  chill. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  a  sixth  guest  ap- 
peared on  the  lawn,  and  stepped  into  the  libra- 
ry— a  silent,  resolute,  unassuming,  elderly  man, 
who  had  arrived  the  day  before  on  a  visit  to 
Windygates,  and  who  was  well  known,  in  and 
out  of  London,  as  one  of  the  first  consulting  sur- 
geons of  his  time. 

"A  discussion  going  on?"  he  asked.  "Am 
I  in  the  way  ?" 

"There's  no  discussion — we  are  all  agreed," 
cried  Geoffrey,  answering  boisterously  for  the 
rest.  ' '  The  more  the  merrier,  Sir ! " 

After  a  glance  at  Geoffrey,  the  surgeon  sud- 
denly checked  himself  on  the  point  of  advancing 
to  the  inner  part  of  the  room,  and  remained 
standing  at  the  window. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Geoffrey,  with  a  grave  dignity 
which  was  quite  new  in  Arnold's  experience  of 


him.  "We  are  not  all  agreed.  I  decline,  Mr. 
Delamayn,  to  allow  you  to  connect  me  with  such 
an  expression  of  feeling  on  your  part  as  we  have 
just  heard.  The  language  you  have  used  leaves 
me  no  alternative  but  to  meet  your  statement  of 
what  you  suppose  me  to  have  said  by  my  state- 
ment of  what  I  really  did  say.  It  is  not  my  fault 
if  the  discussion  in  the  garden  is  revived  before 
another  audience  in  this  room — it  is  yours." 

He  looked  as  he  spoke  to  Arnold  and  Blanche, 
and  from  them  to  the  surgeon  standing  at  the 
window. 

The  surgeon  had  found  an  occupation  for  him- 
self which  completely  isolated  him  among  the 
rest  of  the  guests.  Keeping  his  own  face  in  shad- 
ow, he  was  studying  Geoffrey's  face,  in  the  full 
flood  of  light  that  fell  on  it,  with  a  steady  atten- 
tion which  must  have  been  generally  remarked, 
if  all  eyes  had  not  been  turned  toward  Sir  Pat- 
rick at  the  time. 

It  was  not  an  easy  face  to  investigate  at  that 
moment. 

While  Sir  Patrick  had  been  speaking  Geoffrey 
had  seated  himself  near  the  window,  doggedly 
impenetrable  to  the  reproof  of  which  he  was  the 
object.  In  his  impatience  to  consult  the  one  au- 
thority competent  to  decide  the  question  of  Ar- 
nold's position  toward  Anne,  he  had  sided  with 
Sir  Patrick,  as  a  means  of  ridding  himself  of  the 
unwelcome  presence  of  his  friends — and  he  had 
defeated  his  own  purpose,  thanks  to  his  own 
brutish  incapability  of  bridling  himself  in  the 
pursuit  of  it.  Whether  he  was  now  discouraged 
under  these  circumstances,  or  whether  he  was 
simply  resigned  to  bide  his  time  till  his  time 
came,  it  was  impossible,  judging  by  outward  ap- 
pearances, to  say.  With  a  heavy  dropping  at 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  with  a  stolid  indiffer- 
ence staring  dull  in  his  eyes,  there  he  sat,  a  man 
forearmed,  in  his  own  obstinate  neutrality, 
against  all  temptation  to  engage  in  the  conflict 
of  opinions  that  was  to  come. 

Sir  Patrick  took  up  the  newspaper  which  he 
had  brought  in  from  the  garden,  and  looked  once 
more  to  see  if  the  surgeon  was  attending  to  Mm. 

No !  The  surgeon's  attention  was  absorbed 
in  his  own  subject.  There  he  was  in  the  same 
position,  with  his  mind  still  hard  at  work  on 
something  in  Geoffrey  which  at  once  interested 
and  puzzled  it !  "That  num."  he  was  thinking 
to  himself,  "has  come  here  this  morning  after 
traveling  from  London  all  night.  Does  any  or- 
dinary fatigue  explain  what  I  see  in  his  face  ? 
No!" 

"  Our  little  discussion  in  the  garden,"  resumed 
Sir  Patrick,  answering  Blanche's  inquiring  look 
as  she  bent  over  him,  ' '  began,  my  dear,  in  a  par- 
agraph here  announcing  Mr.  Delamayn's  forth- 
coming appearance  in  a  foot-race  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London.  I  hold  very  unpopular  opin- 
ions as  to  the  athletic  displays  which  are  so  much 
in  vogue  in  England  just  now.  And  it  is  possi- 
ble that  I  may  have  expressed  those  opinions  a 
little  too  strongly,  in  the  heat  of  discussion,  with 
gentlemen  who  are  opposed  to  me — I  don't  doubt, 
conscientiously  opposed — on  this  question." 

A  low  groan  of  protest  rose  from  One,  Two, 
and  Three,  in  return  for  the  little  compliment 
which  Sir  Patrick  had  paid  to  them.  "How 
about  rowing  and  running  ending  in  the  Old 
Bailey  and  the  gallows  ?  You  said  that,  Sir — 
you  know  you  did  1" 


MAN  AND  WIFE 


The  two  choral  gentlemen  looked  at  each  oth- 
er, and  agreed  with  the  prevalent  sentiment. 
"It  came  to  that,  I  think,  Smith."  "Yes, 
Jones,  it  certainly  came  to  that. " 

The  only  two  men  who  still  cared  nothing 
about  it  were  Geoffrey  and  the  surgeon.  There 
sat  the  first,  stolidly  neutral — indifferent  alike 
to  the  attack  and  the  defense.  There  stood  the 
second,  pursuing  his  investigation  —  with  the 
growing  interest  in  it  of  a  man  who  was  begin- 
ning to  see  his  way  to  the  end. 

"  Hear  my  defense,  gentlemen,"  continued  Sir 
Patrick,  as  courteously  as  ever.  "You belong, 
remember,  to  a  nation  which  especially  claims 
to  practice  the  rules  of  fair  play.  I  must  beg  to 
remind  you  of  what  I  said  in  the  garden.  I 
started  with  a  concession.  I  admitted— as  every 
person  of  the  smallest  sense  must  admit — that  a 
man  will,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases,  be  all 
the  fitter  for  mental  exercise  if  he  wisely  com- 
bines physical  exercise  along  with  it.  The  whole 
question  between  the  two  is  a  question  of  pro- 
portion and  degree;  and  my  complaint  of  the 
present  time  is  that  the  present  time  doesn't  see 
it.  Popular  opinion  in  England  seems  to  me  to 
be,  not  only  getting  to  consider  the  cultivation 
of  the  muscles  as  of  equal  importance  with  the 
cultivation  of  the  mind,  but  to  be  actually  ex- 
tending —  in  practice,  if  not  in  theory  —  to  the 
absurd  and  dangerous  length  of  putting  bodily 
training  in  the  first  place  of  importance,  anc 
mental  training  in  the  second.  To  take  a  case 
in  point :  I  can  discover  no  enthusiasm  in  the 
nation  any  thing  like  so  genuine  and  any  thing 
like  so  general  as  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  your 
University  boat-race.  Again :  I  see  this  Athletic 
Education  of  yours  made  a  matter  of  public  cele 
bration  in  schools  and  colleges ;  and  I  ask  anj 


unprejudiced  witness  to  tell  me  which  excites 
most  popular  enthusiasm,  and  which  gets  the 
most  prominent  place  in  the  public  journals — 
lie  exhibition,  indoors  (on  Prize -day),  of  what 
:he  boys  can  do  with  their  minds  ?  or  the  exhi- 
jition,  out  of  doors  (on  Spprts-day),  of  what  the 
)oys  can  do  with  their  bodies  ?  You  know  per- 
iectly  well  which  performance  excites  the  loudest 
cheers,  which  occupies  the  prominent  place  in 
the  newspapers,  and  which,  as  a  necessary  con- 
sequence, confers  the  highest  social  honors  on 
the  hero  of  the  day. " 

Another  murmur  from  One,  Two,  and  Three. 
"  We  have  nothing  to  say  to  that,  Sir ;  have  it 
all  your  own  way,  so  far. " 

Another  ratification  of  agreement  with  the 
prevalent  opinion  between  Smith  and  Jones. 

' '  Very  good, "  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "  We  are 
all  of  one  mind  as  to  which  way  the  public  feel- 
ing sets.  If  it  is  a  feeling  to  be  respected  and 
encouraged,  show  me  the  national  advantage 
which  has  resulted  from  it.  Where  is  the  influ- 
ence of  this  modern  outburst  of  manly  enthusi- 
asm on  the  serious  concerns  of  life  ?  and  how 
has  it  improved  the  character  of  the  people  at 
large?  Are  we  any  of  us  individually  readier 
than  we  ever  were  to  sacrifice  our  own  little  pri- 
vate interests  to  the  public  good  ?  Are  we  deal- 
ing with  the  serious  social  questions  of  our  time 
in  a  conspicuously  determined,  downright,  and 
definite  way  ?  Are  we  becoming  a  visibly  and 
indisputably  purer  people  in  our  code  of  com- 
mercial morals  ?  Is  there  a  healthier  and  higher 
tone  in  those  public  amusements  which  faithfully 
reflect  in  all  countries  the  public  taste  ?  Pro- 
duce me  affirmative  answers  to  these  questions, 
which  rest  on  solid  proof,  and  I'll  accept  the 
present  mania  for  athletic  suorts  as  something 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


83 


better  than  an  outbreak  of  our  insular  boastful- 
ness  and  "our  insular  barbarity  in  a  new  form." 

"  Question  !  question !"  in  a  general  cry,  from 
One,  Two,  and  Three. 

"Question  !  question!  "in  meek  reverberation, 
from  Smith  and  Jones. 

"That  is  the  question,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick. 
"  You  admit  the  existence  of  the  public  feeling ; 
and  I  ask,  what  good  does  it  do  ?" 

"What  harm  does  it  do?"  from  One,  Two, 
and  Three. 

"  Hear !  hear  !"  from  Smith  and  Jones. 

"That's  a  fair  challenge,"  replied  Sir  Patrick. 
"  I  am  bound  to  meet  you  on  that  new  ground. 
I  won't  point,  gentlemen,  by  way  of  answer,  to 
the  coarseness  which  I  can  see  growing  on  our 
national  manners,  or  to  the  deterioration  which 
appears  to  me  to  be  spreading  more  and  more 
widely  in  our  national  tastes.  You  may  tell  me 
with  perfect  truth  that  I  am  too  old  a  man  to  be 
a  fair  judge  of  manners  and  tastes  which  have 
got  beyond  my  standards.  We  will  try  the  is- 
sue, as  it  now  stands  between  us,  on  its  abstract 
merits  only.  I  assert  that  a  state  of  public  feel- 
ing which  does  practically  place  physical  train- 
ing, in  its  estimation,  above  moral  and  mental 
training,  is  a  positively  bad  and  dangerous  state 
of  feeling  in  this,  that  it  encourages  the  inbred 
reluctance  in  humanity  to  submit  to  the  demands 
which  moral  and  mental  cultivation  must  inevita- 
bly make  on  it.  Which  am  I,  as  a  boy,  natu- 
rally most  ready  to  do — to  try  how  high  I  can 
jump  ?  or  to  try  how  much  I  can  learn  ?  Which 
training  comes  easiest  to  me  as  a  young  man  ? 
The  training  which  teaches  me  to  handle  an  oar  ? 
or  the  training  which  teaches  me  to  return  good 
for  evil,  and  to  love  my  neighbor  as  myself?  Of 
those  two  experiments,  of  those  two  trainings, 
which  ought  society  in  England  to  meet  with  the 
warmest  encouragement  ?  And  which  does  so- 
ciety in  England  practically  encourage,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact?" 

"What  did  you  say  yourself  just  now?"  from 
One,  Two,  and  Three. 

"Remarkably  well  put!"  from  Smith  and 
Jones. 

"I  said,"  admitted  Sir  Patrick,  "that  a  man 
will  go  all  the  better  to  his  books  for  his  healthy 
physical  exercise.  And  I  say  that  again — pro- 
vided the  physical  exercise  be  restrained  within 
fit  limits.  But  when  public  feeling  enters  into 
the  question,  and  directly  exalts  the  bodily  ex- 
ercises above  the  books — then  I  say  public  feel- 
ing is  in  a  dangerous  extreme.  The  bodily  ex- 
ercises, in  that  case,  will  be  uppermost  in  the 
youth's  thoughts,  will  have  the  strongest  hold 
on  his  interest,  will  take  the  lion's  share  of  his 
time,  and  will,  by  those  means — barring  the  few 
purely  exceptional  instances — slowly  and  surely 
end  in  leaving  him,  to  all  good  moral  and  mental 
purpose,  certainly  an  uncultivated,  and,  possibly, 
a  dangerous  man." 

A  cry  from  the  camp  of  the  adversaries :  "He's 
got  to  it  at  last !  A  man  who  leads  an  out-of-door 
life,  and  uses  the  strength  that  God  has  given  to 
him,  is  a  dangerous  man.  Did  any  body  ever  hear 
the  like  of  that  ?" 

Cry  reverberated,  with  variations,  by  the  two 
human  echoes  :  "No!  Nobody  ever  heard  the 
like  of  that !" 

"Clear  your  minds  of  cant,  gentlemen,"  an- 
swered Sir  Patrick.  "The  agricultural  laborer 


leads  an  out-of-door  life,  and  uses  the  strength 
that  God  has  given  to  him.  The  sailor  in  the 
merchant  service  does  the  same.  Both  are  an 
uncultivated,  a  shamefully  uncultivated,  class — 
and  see  the  result !  Look  at  the  Map  of  Crime, 
and  you  will  find  the  most  hideous  offenses  in 
the  calendar,  committed  —  not  in  the  towns, 
where  the  average  man  doesn't  lead  an  out-of- 
door  life,  doesn't  as  a  rule,  use  his  strength,  but 
is,  as  a  rule,  comparatively  cultivated — not  in 
the  towns,  but  in  the  agricultural  districts.  As 
for  the  English  sailor — except  when  the  Royal 
Navy  catches  and  cultivates  him  —  ask  Mr. 
Brinkworth,  who  has  served  in  the  merchant 
navy,  what  sort  of  specimen  of  the  moral  influ- 
ence of  out-of-door  life  and  muscular  cultivation 
he  is." 

"In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,"  said  Arnold,  "be 
is  as  idle  and  vicious  a  ruffian  as  walks  the 
earth. " 

Another  cry  from  the  Opposition:  ':Are  we 
agricultural  laborers?  Are  we  sailors  in  the 
merchant  service  ?" 

A  smart  reverberation  from  the  human  echoes : 
"Smith!  am  I  a  laborer?"  "Jones!  am  I  a 
sailor?" 

"Pray  let  us  not  be  personal,  gentlemen," said 
Sir  Patrick.  "  I  am  speaking  generally ;  and  I 
can  only  meet  extreme  objections  by  pushing  my 
argument  to  extreme  limits.  The  laborer  and 
the  sailor  have  served  my  purpose.  If  the  la- 
borer and  the  sailor  offend  you,  by  all  means  let 
them  walk  off  the  stage !  I  hold  to  the  position 
which  I  advanced  just  now.  A  man  may  be 
well  born,  well  off,  well  dressed,  well  fed — but 
if  he  is  an  uncultivated  man,  he  is  (in  spite  of 
all  those  advantages)  a  man  with  special  capaci- 
ties for  evil  in  him,  on  that  very  account.  Don't 
mistake  me !  I  am  far  from  saying  that  the 
present  rage  for  exclusively  muscular  accom- 
plishments must  lead  inevitably  downward  to 
the  lowest  deep  of  depravity.  Fortunately  for 
society,  all  special  depravity  is  more  or  less  cer- 
tainly the  result,  in  the  first  instance,  of  special 
temptation.  The  ordinary  mass  of  us,  thank 
God,  pass  through  life  without  being  exposed 
to  other  than  ordinary  temptations.  Thousands 
of  the  young  gentlemen,  devoted  to  the  favorite 
pursuits  of  the  present  time,  will  get  through 
existence  with  no  worse  consequences  to  them- 
selves than  a  coarse  tone  of  mind  and  manners, 
and  a  lamentable  incapability  of  feeling  any  of 
those  higher  and  gentler  influences  which  sweet- 
en and  purify  the  lives  of  more  cultivated  men. 
But  take  the  other  case  (which  may  occur  to 
any  body),  the  case  of  a  special  temptation  try- 
ing a  modern  young  man  of  your  prosperous 
class  and  of  mine.  And  let  me  beg  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn  to  honor  with  his  attention  what  I  have 
now  to  say,  because  it  refers  to  theiopinion  which 
I  did  really  express — as  distinguished  from  the 
opinion  which  he  affects  to  agree  with,  and  which 
I  never  advanced. " 

Geoffrey's  indifference  showed  no  signs  of  giv- 
ing way.  "  Go  on !."  he  said — and  still  sat  look- 
ing straight  before  flim,  with  heavy  eyes,  which 
noticed  nothing,  and  expressed  nothing. 

"Take  the  example  which  we  have  now  in 
view,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick — "the  example  of 
an  average  young  gentleman  of  our  time,  blest 
with  every  advantage  that  physical  cultivation 
can  bestow  on  him.  Let  this  man  be  tried  by 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


a  temptation  which  insidiously  calls  into  action, 
in  his  own  interests,  the  savage  instincts  latent 
in  humanity — the  instincts  of  self-seeking  and 
cruelty  which  are  at  the  bottom  of  all  crime. 
Let  this  man  be  placed  toward  some  other  per- 
son, guiltless  of  injuring  him,  in  a  position 
which  demands  one  of  two  sacrifices :  the  sac- 
rifice of  the  other  person,  or  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  interests  and  his  own  desires.  His  neigh- 
bor's happiness,  or  his  neighbor's  life,  stands,  let 
us  say,  between  him  and  the  attainment  of  some- 
thing that  he  wants.  He  can  wreck  the  happi- 
ness, or  strike  down  the  life,  without,  to  his  knowl- 
edge, any  fear  of  suffering  for  it  himself.  What 
is  to  prevent  him,  being  the  man  he  is,  from  go- 
ing straight  to  his  end,  on  those  conditions  ?  Will 
the  skill  in  rowing,  the  swiftness  in  running,  the 
admirable  capacity  and  endurance  in  other  phys- 
ical exercises,  which  he  has  attained,  by  a  stren- 
uous cultivation  in  this  kind  that  has  excluded 
any  similarly  strenuous  cultivation  in  other  kinds 
— will  these  physical  attainments  help  him  to  win 
a  purely  moral  victory  over  his  own  selfishness 
and  his  own  cruelty  ?  They  won't  even  help  him 
to  see  that  it  is  selfishness,  and  that  it  is  cruelty. 
The  essential  principle  of  his  rowing  and  racing 
(a  harmless  principle  enough,  if  you  can  be  sure 
of  applying  it  to  rowing  and  racing  only)  has 
taught  him  to  take  every  advantage  of  another 
man  that  his  superior  strength  and  superior  cun- 
ning can  suggest.  There  has  been  nothing  in  his 
training  to  soften  the  barbarous  hardness  in  his 
heart,  and  to  enlighten  the  barbarous  darkness  in 
his  mind.  Temptation  finds  this  man  defense- 
less, when  temptation  passes  his  way.  I  don't 
care  who  he  is,  or  how  high  he  stands  accident- 
ally in  the  social  scale — he  is,  to  all  moral  intents 
and  purposes,  an  Animal,  and  nothing  more.  If 
my  happiness  stands  in  his  way — and  if  he  can  do 
it  with  impunity  to  himself — he  will  trample  down 
my  happiness.  If  my  life  happens  to  be  the  next 
obstacle  he  encounters — and  if  he  can  do  it  with 
impunity  to  himself — he  will  trample  down  my 
life.  Not,  Mr.  Delamayn,  in  the  character  of  a 
victim  to  irresistible  fatality,  or  to  blind  chance ; 
but  in  the  character  of  a  man  who  has  sown  the 
seed,  and  reaps  the  harvest.  That,  Sir,  is  the  case 
which  I  put  as  an  extreme  case  only,  when  this 
discussion  began.  As  an  extreme  case  only — but 
as  a  perfectly  possible  case,  at  the  same  time — I 
restate  it  now. " 

Before  the  advocates  of  the  other  side  of  the 
question  could  open  their  lips  to  reply,  Geoffrey 
suddenly  flung  off  his  indifference,  and  started  to 
his  feet. 

"Stop!"  he  cried,  threatening  the  others,  in 
his  fierce  impatience  to  answer  for  himself,  with 
his  clenched  fist. 

There  was  a  general  silence. 

Geoffrey  turned  and  looked  at  Sir  Patrick,  as 
if  Sir  Patrick  had  personally  insulted  him. 

"Who  is  this  anonymous  man,  who  finds  his 
way  to  his  own  ends,  and  pities  nobody  and 
sticks  at  nothing?"  he  asked.  "Give  him  a 
name!" 

"  I  am  quoting  an  example,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
' '  I  am  not  attacking  a  man. " 

"What  right  have  you,"  cried  Geoffrey — ut- 
terly forgetful,  in  the  strange  exasperation  that 
had  seized  on  him,  of  the  interest  that  he  had  in 
controlling  himself  before  Sir  Patrick — "what 
right  have  you  to  pick  out  an  example  of  a  row- 


ing man  who  is  an  infernal  scoundrel — when  it's 
quite  as  likely  that  a  rowing  man  may  be  a  good 
fellow :  ay !  and  a  better  fellow,  if  you  come  to 
that,  than  ever  stood  in  your  shoes !" 

"If  the  one  case  is  quite  as  likely  to  occur  as 
the  other  (which  I  readily  admit), "  answered  Sir 
Patrick,  "  I  have  surely  a  right  to  choose  which 
case  I  please  for  illustration.  (Wait,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn !  These  are  the  last  words  I  have  to  say, 
and  I  mean  to  say  them.)  I  have  taken  the  ex- 
ample— not  of  a  specially  depraved  man,  as  you 
erroneously  suppose — but  of  an  average  man, 
with  his  average  share  of  the  mean,  cruel,  and 
dangerous  qualities,  which  are  part  and  parcel 
of  unreformed  human  nature — as  your  religion 
tells  you,  and  as  you  may  see  for  yourself,  if  you 
choose  to  look  at  your  untaught  fellow-creatures 
any  where.  I  suppose  that  man  to  be  tried  by  a 
temptation  to  wickedness,  out  of  the  common ; 
and  I  show,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  how  com- 
pletely the  moral  and  mental  neglect  of  himself, 
which  the  present  material  tone  of  public  feeling 
in  England  has  tacitly  encouraged,  leaves  him  at 
the  mercy  of  all  the  worst  instincts  in  his  nature; 
and  how  surely,  under  those  conditions,  he  must 
go  down  (gentleman  as  he  is)  step  by  step — as 
the  lowest  vagabond  in  the  streets  goes  down 
under  his  special  temptation — from  the  begin- 
ning in  ignorance  to  the  end  in  crime.  If  you 
deny  my  right  to  take  such  an  example  as  that, 
in  illustration  of  the  views  I  advocate,  you  must 
either  deny  that  a  special  temptation  to  wicked- 
ness can  assail  a  man  in  the  position  of  a  gentle- 
man ;  or  you  must  assert  that  gentlemen  who  are 
naturally  superior  to  all  temptation  are  the  only 
gentlemen  who  devote  themselves  to  athletic  pur- 
suits. There  is  my  defense.  In  stating  my  case, 
I  have  spoken  out  of  my  own  sincere  respect  for 
the  interests  of  virtue  and  of  learning :  out  of 
my  own  sincere  admiration  for  those  young  men 
among  us  who  are  resisting  the  contagion  of  bar- 
barism about  them.  In  their  future  is  the  future 
hope  of  England.  I  have  done. " 

Angrily  ready  with  a  violent  personal  reply, 
Geoffrey  found  himself  checked,  in  his  turn,  by 
another  person  with  something  to  say,  and  with 
a  resolution  to  say  it  at  that  particular  moment. 

For  some  little  time  past  the  surgeon  had  dis- 
continued his  steady  investigation  of  Geoffrey's 
face,  and  had  given  all  his  attention  to  the  dis- 
cussion, with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  self-imposed 
task  had  come  to  an  end.  As  the  last  sentence 
fell  from  the  last  speaker's  lips,  he  interposed  so 
quickly  and  so  skillfully  between  Geoffrey  and 
Sir  Patrick,  that  Geoffrey  himself  was  taken  by 
surprise. 

"There  is  something  still  wanting  to  make 
Sir  Patrick's  statement  of  the  case  complete," 
he  said.  "I  think  I  can  supply  it,  from  the  re- 
sult of  my  own  professional  experience.  Before 
I  say  what  I  have  to  say,  Mr.  Delamayn  will  per- 
haps excuse  me,  if  I  venture  on  giving  him  a  cau- 
tion to  control  himself." 

"Are  you  going  to  make  a  dead  set  at  me, 
too  ?"  inquired  Geoffrey. 

"  I  am  recommending  you  to  keep  your  tem- 
per— nothing  more.  There  are  plenty  of  men 
who  can  fly  into  a  passion  without  doing  them- 
selves any  particular  harm.  You  are  not  one  of 
them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


85 


"I  don't  think  the  state  of  your  health,  Mr. 
Delamayn,  is  quite  so  satisfactory  as  you  may  be 
disposed  to  consider  it  yourself. " 

Geoffrey  turned  to  his  admirers  and  adherents 
with  a  roar  of  derisive  laughter.  The  admirers 
and  adherents  all  echoed  him  together.  Arnold 
and  B  lanche  smiled  at  each  other.  Even  Sir  Pat- 
rick looked  as  if  he  could  hardly  credit  the  evi- 
dence of  his  own  ears.  There  stood  the  modern 
Hercules,  self-vindicated  as  a  Hercules,  before 
all  eyes  that  looked  at  him.  And  there,  opposite, 
stood  a  man  whom  he  could  have  killed  with  one 
blow  of  his  fist,  telling  him,  in  serious  earnest, 
that  he  was  not  in  perfect  health ! 

"You  are  a  rare  fellow!"  said  Geoffrey,  half 
in  jest  and  half  in  anger.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  me?" 

' '  I  have  undertaken  to  give  yon,  what  I  be- 
lieve to  be,  a  necessary  caution,"  answered  the 
surgeon.  "  I  have  not  undertaken  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  is  the  matter  with  you.  That  may 
be  a  question  for  consideration  some  little  time 
hence.  In  the  mean  while,  I  should  like  to  put 
my  impression  about  you  to  the  test.  Have  you 
any  objection  to  answer  a  question  on  a  matter 
of  no  particular  importance  relating  to  yourself  ?" 

"  Let's  hear  the  question  first." 

"  I  have  noticed  something  in  your  behavior 
while  Sir  Patrick  was  speaking.  You  are  as 
much  interested  in  opposing  his  views  as  any 
of  those  gentlemen  about  you.  I  don't  under- 
stand your  sitting  in  silence,  and  leaving  it  en- 
tirely to  the  others  to  put  the  case  on  your  side 
— until  Sir  Patrick  said  something  which  happen- 
ed to  irritate  you.  Had  you,  all  the  time  before 
that,  no  answer  ready  in  your  own  mind  ?'' 

"  I  had  as  good  answers  in  my  mind  as  any 
that  have  been  made  here  to-day." 

"And  yet  you  didn't  give  them?" 

"  No ;  I  didn't  give  them." 

"Perhaps  you  felt — though  you  knew  your 
objections  to  be  good  ones — that  it  was  hardly 
worth  while  to  take  the  trouble  of  putting  them 
into  words  ?  In  short,  you  let  your  friends  an- 
swer for  you,  rather  than  make  the  effort  of  an- 
swering for  yourself?" 

Geoffrey  looked  at  his  medical  adviser  with  a 
sudden  curiosity  and  a  sudden  distrust. 

"I  say,"  he  asked,  "how  do  you  come  to 
know  what's  going  on  in  my  mind  —  without 
my  telling  you  of  it  ?" 

"  It  is  my  business  to  find  out  what  is  going 
on  in  people's  bodies — and  to  do  that  it  is  some- 
times necessary  for  me  to  find  out  (if  I  can)  what 
is  going  on  in  their  minds.  If  I  have  rightly  in- 
terpreted what  was  going  on  in  your  mind,  there 
is  no  need  for  me  to  press  my  question.  You 
have  answered  it  already. " 

He  turned  to  Sir  Patrick  next. 

"There  is  a  side  to  this  subject,"  he  said, 
"which  you  have  not  touched  on  yet.  There 
is  a  Physical  objection  to  the  present  rage  for 
muscular  exercises  of  all  sorts,  which  is  quite  as 
strong,  in  its  way,  as  the  Moral  objection.  You 
have  stated  the  consequences  as  they  may  affect 
the  mind.  I  can  state  the  consequences  as  they 
do  affect  the  body." 

"  From  your  own  experience?" 

"  From  my  own  experience.  I  can  tell  you, 
as  a  medical  man,  that  a  proportion,  and  not  by 
any  means  a  small  one,  of  the  young  men  who 
are  now  putting  themselves  to  violent  athletic 


tests  of  their  strength  and  endurance,  are  tak- 
ing that  course  to  the  serious  and  permanent  in- 
jury of  their  own  health.  The  public  who  attend 
rowing -matches,  foot-races,  and  other  exhibitions 
of  that  sort,  see  nothing  but  the  successful  results 
of  muscular  training.  Fathers  and  mothers  at 
home  see  the  failures.  There  are  households  in 
England — miserable  households,  to  be  counted, 
Sir  Patrick,  by  more  than  ones  and  twos — in 
which  there  are  young  men  who  have  to  thank 
the  strain  laid  on  their  constitutions  by  the  pop- 
ular physical  displays  of  the  present  time,  for  be- 
ing broken  men,  and  invalided  men,  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives." 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  said  Sir  Patrick,  look- 
ing at  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey  carelessly  nodded  his  head.  His  ir- 
ritation had  had  time  to  subside :  the  stolid  in- 
difference had  got  possession  of  him  again.  He 
had  resumed  his  chair — he  sat,  with  outstretched 
legs,  staring  stupidly  at  the  pattern  on  the  car- 
pet. "What  does  it  matter  to  Me?"  was  the 
sentiment  expressed  all  over  him,  from  head  to 
foot. 

The  surgeon  went  on. 

"I  can  see  no  remedy  for  this  sad  state  of 
things,"  he  said,  "as  long  as  the  public  feeling 
remains  what  the  public  feeling  is  now.  A  fine 
healthy-looking  young  man,  with  a  superb  mus- 
cular development,  longs  (naturally  enough)  to 
distinguish  himself  like  others.  The  training- 
authorities  at  his  college,  or  elsewhere,  take 
him  in  hand  (naturally  enough  again)  on  the 
strength  of  outward  appearances.  And  wheth- 
er they  have  been  right  or  wrong  in  choosing 
him  is  more  than  they  can  say,  until  the  ex- 
periment has  been  tried,  and  the  mischief  has 
been,  in  many  cases,  irretrievably  done.  How 
many  of  them  are  aware  of  the  important  physi- 
ological truth,  that  the  muscular  power  of  a  man 
is  no  fair  guarantee  of  his  vital  power  ?  How 
many  of  them  know  that  we  all  have  (as  a  great 
French  writer  puts  it)  two  lives  in  us — the  sur- 
face life  of  the  muscles,  and  the  inner  life  of  the 
heart,  lungs,  and  brain  ?  Even  if  they  did  know 
this — even  with  medical  men  to  help  them — it 
would  be  in  the  last  degree  doubtful,  in  most 
cases,  whether  any  previous  examination  would 
result  in  any  reliable  discovery  of  the  vital  fitness 
of  the  man  to  undergo  the  stress  of  muscular  ex- 
ertion laid  on  him.  Apply  to  any  of  my  breth- 
ren ;  and  they  will  tell  you,  as  the  result  of  their 
own  professional  observation,  that  I  am,  in  no 
sense,  overstating  this  serious  evil,  or  exagger- 
ating the  deplorable  and  dangerous  consequences 
to  which  it  leads.  I  have  a  patient  at  this  mo- 
ment, who  is  a  young  man  of  twenty,  and  who 
possesses  one  of  the  finest  muscular  developments 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  If  that  young  man  had 
consulted  me,  before  he  followed  the  example  of 
the  other  young  men  about  him,  I  can  not  hon- 
estly say  that  I  could  have  foreseen  the  results. 
As  things  are,  after  going  through  a  certain 
amount  of  muscular  training,  after  performing 
a  certain  number  of  muscular  feats,  he  suddenly 
fainted  one  day,  to  the  astonishment  of  his  fam- 
ily and  friends.  I  was  called  in,  and  I  have 
watched  the  case  since.  He  will  probably  live, 
but  he  will  never  recover.  I  am  obliged  to  take 
!  precautions  with  this  youth  of  twenty  which  I 
;  should  take  with  an  old  man  of  eighty.  He  is 
,  big  enough  and  muscular  enough  to  sit  to  a 


86 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


painter  as  a  model  for  Samson — and  only  last 
week  I  saw  him  swoon  away  like  a  young  girl, 
in  his  mother's  arms." 

"Name  !"  cried  Geoffrey's  admirers,  still  fight- 
ing the  battle  on  their  side,  in  the  absence  of  any 
encouragement  from  Geoffrey  himself. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  mentioning  my  pa- 
tients' names,"  replied  the  surgeon.  "But  if 
you  insist  on  my  producing  an  example  of  a  man 
broken  by  athletic  exercises,  I  can  do  it. " 

"Doit!     Who  is  he?" 

"  You  all  know  him  perfectly  well." 

"  Is  he  in  the  doctor's  hands  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"There?" 

In  a  pause  of  breathless  silence — with  the  eyes 
of  every  person  in  the  room  eagerly  fastened  on 
him — the  surgeon  lifted  his  hand  and  pointed  to 
Geoffrey  Delamayn. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTIETH. 

TOUCHING   IT. 

As  soon  as  the  general  stupefaction  was  al- 
layed, the  general  incredulity  asserted  itself  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

The  man  who  first  declared  that  "  seeing"  was 
"  believing"  laid  his  finger  (whether  he  knew  it 
himself  or  not)  on  one  of  the  fundamental  follies 
of  humanity.  The  easiest  of  all  evidence  to  re- 
ceive is  the  evidence  that  requires  no  other  judg- 
ment to  decide  on  it  than  the  judgment  of  the 
eye — and  it  will  be,  on  that  account,  the  evidence 
which  humanity  is  most  ready  to  credit,  as  long 
as  humanity  lasts.  The  eyes  of  every  body 
looked  at  Geoffrey ;  and  the  judgment  of  every 
body  decided,  on  the  evidence  there  visible,  that 
the  surgeon  must  be  wrong.  Lady  Lundie  her- 
self (disturbed  over  her  dinner  invitations)  led 
the  general  protest.  "Mr.  Delamayn  in  broken 
health !"  she  exclaimed,  appealing  to  the  better 
sense  of  her  eminent  medical  guest.  "Really, 
now,  you  can't  expect  us  to  believe  that !" 

Stung  into  action  for  the  second  time  by  the 
startling  assertion  of  which  he  had  been  made 
the  subject,  Geoffrey  rose,  and  looked  the  sur- 
geon, steadily  and  insolently,  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  You  point  me  outJbefore  all  these  people — " 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Delamayn.  I  admit  that 
I  may  have  been  wrong  in  directing  the  general 
attention  to  you.  You  have  a  right  to  complain 
of  my  having  answered  too  publicly  the  public 
challenge  offered  to  me  by  your  friends.  I  apol- 
ogize for  having  done  that.  But  I  don't  retract 
a  single  word  of  what  I  have  said  on  the  subject 
of  your  health,," 

"  You  stick  to  it  that  I'm  a  broken-down 
man  ?" 

"I  do." 

' '  I  wish  you  were  twenty  years  younger,  Sir  ?" 

"Why?" 

"I'd  ask  you  to  step  out  on  the  lawn  there; 
and  I'd  show  you  whether  I'm  a  broken-down 
man  or  not. " 

Lady  Lundie  looked  at  her  brother-in-law. 
Sir  Patrick  instantly  interfered. 

"  Mr.  Delamayn,"  he  said,  "you  were  invited 


here  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman,  and  you 
are  a  guest  in  a  lady's  house." 

"  No !  no !"  said  the  surgeon,  good-humored  ly. 
"Mr.  Delamayn  is  using  a  strong  argument,  Sir 
Patrick — and  that  is  all.  If  I  were  twenty  years 
younger,"  he  went  on,  addressing  himself  to 
Geoffrey,  "and  if  I  did  step  out  on  the  lawn 
with  you,  the  result  wouldn't  affect  the  question 
between  us  in  the  least.  I  don't  say  that  the 
violent  bodily  exercises  in  which  you  are  famous 
have  damaged  your  muscular  power.  I  assert 
that  they  have  damaged  your  vital  power.  In 
what  particular  way  they  have  affected  it  I  don't 
consider  myself  bound  to  tell  you.  I  simply  give 
you  a  warning,  as  a  matter  of  common  human- 
ity. You  will  do  well  to  be  content  with  the 
success  you  have  already  achieved  in  the  field  of 
athletic  pursuits,  and  to  alter  your  mode  of  life 
for  the  future.  Accept  my  excuses,  once  more, 
for  having  said  this  publicly  instead  of  privately 
— and  don't  forget  my  warning." 

He  turned  to  move  away  to  another  part  of 
the  room.  Geoffrey  fairly  forced  him  to  return 
to  the  subject. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  he  said.  ' '  You  have  had  your 
innings.  My  turn  now.  I  can't  give  it  words 
as  you  do ;  but  I  can  come  to  the  point.  And, 
by  the  Lord,  I'll  fix  you  to  it!  In  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight  from  this  I'm  going  into  training  for 
the  Foot-Race  at  Fulham.  Do  you  say  I  shall 
break  down  ?" 

"You  will  probably  get  through  your  train- 
ing." 

"  Shall  I  get  through  the  race  ?" 

"You  may  possibly  get  through  the  race.  But 
if  you  do — " 

"If  I  do?" 

"You  will  never  run  another." 

"  And  never  row  in  another  match  ?" 

"Never." 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  row  in  the  Race,  next 
spring ;  and  I  have  said  I  will.  Do  you  tell  me, 
in  so  many  words,  that  I  sha'n't  be  abie  to  do  it  ?" 

"Yes — in  so  many  words." 

"  Positively  ?" 

"Positively." 

"  Back  your  opinion !"  cried  Geoffrey,  tearing 
his  betting-book  out  of  his  pocket.  "  I  lay  you 
an  even  hundred  I'm  in  fit  condition  to  row  in 
the  University  Match  next  spring." 

"I  don't  bet,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

With  that  final  reply  the  surgeon  walked  away 
to  the  other  end  of  the  library.  Lady  Lundie 
(taking  Blanche  in  custody)  withdrew,  at  the 
same  time,  to  return  to  the  serious  business  of 
her  invitations  for  the  dinner.  Geoffrey  turned 
defiantly,  book  in  hand,  to  his  college  friends 
about  him.  The  British  blood  was  up ;  and  the 
British  resolution  to  bet,  which  successfully  de- 
fies common  decency  and  common-law  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  was  not  to  be 
trifled  with. 

"Come  on!"  cried  Geoffrey.  "Back  the 
doctor,  one  of  you  !" 

Sir  Patrick  rose  in  undisguised  disgust,  and 
followed  the  surgeon.  One,  Two,  and  Three, 
invited  to  business  by  their  illustrious  friend, 
shook  their  thick  heads  at  him  knowingly,  and 
answered  with  one  accord,  in  one  eloquent  word 
— "Gammon!" 

"  One  of  you  back  him !"  persisted  Geoffrey, 
appealing  to  the  two  choral  gentlemen  in  the 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


87 


"AN   EVEN    HUNDRED    ON   THE   DOCTOR." 


back-ground,  with  his  temper  fast  rising  to  fever 
heat.  The  two  choral  gentlemen  compared  notes, 
as  usual.  "  We  weren't  born  yesterday,  Smith  ?" 
"Not  if  we  know  it,  Jones." 

"Smith!"  said  Geoffrey,  with  a  sudden  as- 
sumption of  politeness  ominous  of  something  un- 
pleasant to  come. 

Smith  said  "  Yes?" — with  a  smile. 

"Jones!" 

Jones  said  "Yes?"  —  with  a  reflection  of 
Smith. 

"You're  a  couple  of  infernal  cads — and  you 
haven't  got  a  hundred  pound  between  you!" 

"Come!  come!"  said  Arnold,  interfering  for 
the  first  time.  "This  is  shameful,  Geoffrey!" 

"Why  the" — (never  mind  what!) — "won't 
they  any  of  them  take  the  bet  ?" 

"If  you  must  be  a  fool,"  returned  Arnold,  a 
little  irritably  on  his  side,  "and  if  nothing  else 
will  keep  you  quiet,  77/take  the  bet." 

"An  even  hundred  on  the  doctor!"  cried 
Geoffrey.  "  Done  with  you !" 

His  highest  aspirations  were  satisfied ;  his 
temper  was  in  perfect  order  again.  He  entered 
the  bet  in  his  book ;  and  made  his  excuses  to 
Smith  and  Jones  in  the  heartiest  way.  "No 
offense,  old  chaps!  Shake  hands!"  The  two 
choral  gentlemen  were  enchanted  with  him. 
' ' The  English  aristocracy — eh,  Smith  ?"  " Blood 
and  breeding — ah,  Jones!" 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  Arnold's  conscience 
reproached  him :  not  for  betting  (who  is  ashamed 
of  that  form  of  gambling  in  England  ?),  but  for 
"  backing  the  doctor."  With  the  best  intention 
toward  his  friend,  he  was  speculating  on  the  fail- 
ure of  his  friend's  health.  He  anxiously  assured 
Geoffrey  that  no  man  in  the  room  could  be  more 
heartily  persuaded  that  the  surgeon  was  wrong 


than  himself.  "I  don't  cry  off  from  the  bet," 
he  said.  "But,  my  dear  fellow,  pray  under- 
stand that  I  only  take  it  to  please  you" 

"Bother  all  that!"  answered  Geoffrey,  with 
the  steady  eye  to  business,  which  was  one  of  the 
choicest  virtues  in  his  character.  "A  bet's  a 
bet — and  hang  your  sentiment!"  He  drew  Ar- 
nold by  the  arm  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  others. 
"  I  say !"  he  asked,  anxiously.  "Do  you  think 
I've  set  the  old  fogy's  back  up  ?" 

' '  Do  you  mean  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

Geoffrey  nodded,  and  went  on. 

"  I  haven't  put  that  little  matter  to  him  yet — 
about  marrying  in  Scotland,  you  know.  Sup- 
pose he  cuts  up  rough  with  me  if  I  try  him  now  ?" 
His  eye  wandered  cunningly,  as  he  put  the  ques- 
tion, to  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  The  sur- 
geon was  looking  over  a  port-folio  of  prints.  The 
ladies  were  still  at  work  on  their  notes  of  invita- 
tion. Sir  Patrick  was  alone  at  the  book-shelves, 
immersed  in  a  volume  which  he  had  just  taken 
down. 

"  Make  an  apology,"  suggested  Arnold.  "  Sir 
Patrick  may  be  a  little  irritable  and  bitter ;  but 
he's  a  just  man  and  a  kind  man.  Say  you  were 
not  guilty  of  any  intentional  disrespect  toward 
him — and  you  will  say  enough." 

"All  right f 

Sir  Patrick,  deep  in  an  old  Venetian  edition  of 
The  Decameron,  found  himself  suddenly  recalled 
from  medieval  Italy  to  modern  England,  by  no 
less  a  person  than  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  coldly. 

"I  want  to -make  an  apology,"  said  Geoffrey. 
"Let  by-gones  be  by-gones — and  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  wasn't  guilty  of  any  intentional  disre- 
spect toward  you.  Forgive  and  forget.  Not 
half  a  bad  motto,  Sir — eh  ?" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


It  was  clumsily  expressed — but  still  it  was  an 
apology.  Not  even  Geoffrey  could  appeal  to  Sir 
Patrick's  courtesy  and  Sir  Patrick's  consideration 
in  vain. 

"  Not  a  word  more,  Mr.  Delamayn !"  said  the 
polite  old  man.  "Accept  my  excuses  for  any 
thing  which  I  may  have  said  too  sharply,  on  my 
side ;  and  let  us  by  all  means  forget  the  rest. " 

Having  met  the  advance  made  to  him,  in 
those  terms,  he  paused,  expecting  Geoffrey  to 
leave  him  free  to  return  to  the  Decameron.  To 
his  unutterable  astonishment,  Geoffrey  suddenly 
stooped  over  him,  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "I 
want  a  word  in  private  with  you. " 

Sir  Patrick  started  back,  as  if  Geoffrey  had 
tried  to  bite  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Delamayn — what 
did  you  say  ?" 

" Could  you  give  me  a  word  in  private?" 

Sir  Patrick  put  back  the  Decameron ;  and 
bowed  in  freezing  silence.  The  confidence  of 
the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  the  last 
confidence  in  the  world  into  which  he  desired  to 
be  drawn.  "This  is  the  secret  of  the  apology!" 
he  thought.  "What  can  he  possibly  want  with 
Me?" 

"It's  about  a  friend  of  mine,"  pursued  Geof- 
frey ;  leading  the  way  toward  one  of  the  windows. 
"  He's  in  a  scrape,  my  friend  is.  And  I  want 
to  ask  your  advice.  It's  strictly  private,  you 
know."  There  he  came  to  a  full  stop — and 
looked  to  see  what  impression  he  had  produced, 
so  far. 

Sir  Patrick  declined,  either  by  word  or  gesture, 
to  exhibit  the  slightest  anxiety  to  hear  a  word 
more. 

"Would  you  mind  taking  a  turn  in  the  gar- 
den ?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  his  lame  foot.  "  I  have 
had  my  allowance  of  walking  this  morning,"  he 
said.  "Let  my  infirmity  excuse  me." 

Geoffrey  looked  about  him  for  a  substitute  for 
the  garden,  and  led  the  way  back  again  toward 
one  of  the  convenient  curtained  recesses  opening 
out  of  the  inner  wall  of  the  library.  "We  shall 
be  private  enough  here,"  he  said. 

Sir  Patrick  made  a  final  effort  to  escape  the 
proposed  conference — an  undisguised  effort,  this 
time. 

"Pray  forgive  me,  Mr.  Delamayn.  Are  you 
quite  sure  that  you  apply  to  the  right  person,  in 
applying  to  me  f" 

"  You're  a  Scotch  lawyer,  ain't  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  you  understand  about  Scotch  mar- 
riages— eh?'' 

Sir  Patrick's  manner  suddenly  altered. 

"Is  that  the  subject  you  wish  to  consult  me 
on  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  not  me.     It's  my  friend." 

"  Your  friend,  then  ?" 

"Yes.  It's  a  scrape  with  a  woman.  Here, 
in  Scotland.  My  friend  don't  know  whether 
he's  married  to  her  or  not." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

To  Geoffrey's  relief — by  no  means  unmixed 
with  surprise — Sir  Patrick  not  only  showed  no 
further  reluctance  to  be  consulted  by  him,  but 
actually  advanced  to  meet  his  wishes,  by  leading 
the  way  to  the  recess  that  was  nearest  to  them. 
The  quick  brain  of  the  old  lawyer  had  put 
Geoffrey's  application  to  him  for  assistance,  and 


Blanche's  application  to  him  for  assistance,  to- 
gether;   and   had  built  its  own  theory  on  the 
basis  thus  obtained.     "Do  I  see  a  connection 
between  the  present  position  of  Blanche's  gov- 
erness, and  the  present  position  of  Mr.  Dela- 
I  mayn's  '  friend  ?' "  thought  Sir  Patrick.    "  Stran- 
I  ger  extremes  than  that  have  met  me  in  my  ex- 
perience.    Something  may  come  out  of  this." 

The  two  strangely-assorted  companions  seated 
themselves,  one  on  each  side  of  a  little  table  in 
the  recess.  Arnold  and  the  other  guests  had 
idled  out  again  on  to  the  lawn.  The  surgeon 
with  his  prints,  and  the  ladies  with  their  invita- 
tions, were  safely  absorbed  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  library.  The  conference  between  the  two 
men,  so  trifling  in  appearance,  so  terrible  in  its 
destined  influence,  not  over  Anne's  future  only, 
but  over  the  future  of  Arnold  and  Blanche,  was, 
to  all  practical  purposes,  a  conference  with  closed 
doors. 

"  Now,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "  what -is  the  ques- 
tion ?" 

"The  question,"  said  Geoffrey,  "is  whether 
my  friend  is  married  to  her  or  not  ?" 

"Did  he  mean  to  marry  her?" 

"No." 

"  He  being  a  single  man,  and  she  being  a  sin- 
gle woman,  at .  the  time  ?  And  both  in  Scot- 
land ?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  Now  tell  me  the  circum- 
stances." 

Geoffrey  hesitated.  The  art  of  stating  cir- 
cumstances implies  the  cultivation  of  a  very 
rare  gift — the  gift  of  arranging  ideas.  No  one 
was  better  acquainted  with  this  truth  than  Sir 
Patrick.  He  was  purposely  puzzling  Geoffrey 
at  starting,  under  the  firm  conviction  that  his 
client  had  something  to  conceal  from  him.  The 
one  process  that  could  be  depended  on  for  ex- 
tracting the  truth,  under  those  circumstances, 
was  the  process  of  interrogation.  If  Geoffrey 
was  submitted  to  it,  at  the  outset,  his  cunning 
might  take  the  alarm.  Sir  Patrick's  object  was 
to  make  the  man  himself  invite  interrogation. 
Geoffrey  invited  it  forthwith,  by  attempting  to 
state  the  circumstances,  and  by  involving  them 
in  the  usual  confusion.  Sir  Patrick  waited  un- 
til he  had  thoroughly  lost  the  thread  of  his  nar- 
rative— and  then  played  for  the  winning  trick. 

"Would  it  be  easier  to  you  if  I  asked  a  few 
questions  ?"  he  inquired,  innocently. 

' '  Much  easier. " 

s'  I  am  quite  at  your  service.  Suppose  we 
clear  the  ground  to  begin  with  ?  Are  you  at 
liberty  to  mention  names  ?" 

'No." 

'  Places  ?" 

'No." 

'Dates?" 

'  Do  you  want  me  to  be  particular  ?" 

'  Be  as  particular  as  you  can." 

'  Will  it  do,  if  I  say  the  present  year  ?" 

'Yes.  Were  your  friend  and  the  lady — at 
some  time  in  the  present  year — traveling  togeth- 
er in  Scotland  ?" 

'No." 

'Living  together  in  Scotland?" 

'No." 

'  What  were  they  doing  together  in  Scotland  ?" 

'  Well — they  were  meeting  each  other  at  an 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


89 


"  Oh  ?  They  were  meeting  each  other  at  an 
inn.  Which  was  first  at  the  rendezvous  ?" 

"  The  woman  was  first.  Stop  a  bit !  We  are 
getting  to  it  now. "  He  produced  from  his  pocket 
the  written  memorandum  of  Arnold's  proceed- 
ings at  Craig  Fernie,  which  he  had  taken  down 
from  Arnold's  own  lips.  "  I've  got  a  bit  of  note 
here,"  he  went  on.  "Perhaps  you'd  like  to 
have  a  look  at  it?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  the  note — read  it  rapidly 
through  to  himself — then  re-read  it.  sentence  by 
sentence,  to  Geoffrey ;  using  it  as  a  text  to  speak 
from,  in  making  further  inquiries. 

"  '  He  asked  for  her  by  the  name  of  his  wife, 
at  the  door,'  "  read  Sir  Patrick.  "  Meaning,  I 
presume,  the  door  of  the  inn?  Had  the  lady 
previously  given  herself  out  as  a  married  woman 
to  the  people  of  the  inn  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  long  had  she  been  at  the  inn  before  the 
gentleman  joined  her  ?" 

'  Only  an  hour  or  so." 

'  Did  she  give  a  name  ?" 

'  I  can't  be  quite  sure — I  should  say  not." 

'Did  the  gentleman  give  a  name?" 

'  No.     I'm  certain  he  didn't. " 

Sir  Patrick  returned  to  the  memorandum. 

"  '  He  said  at  dinner,  before  the  landlady  and 
the  waiter,  I  take  these  rooms  for  my  wife.  He 
made  her  say  he  was  her  husband,  at  the  same 
time.'  Was  that  done  jocosely,  Mr.  Delamayn — 
either  by  the  lady  or  the  gentleman  ?" 

"No.     It  was  done  in  downright  earnest." 

"You  mean  it  was  done  to  look  like  earnest, 
and  so  to  deceive  the  landlady  and  the  waiter  ?" 

"Yes." 

Sir  Patrick  returned  to  the  memorandum. 

"  'After  that,  he  stopped  all  night.'  Stopped 
in  the  rooms  he  had  taken  for  himself  and  his 
wife  ?" 

"Yes." 
'  "And  what  happened  the  next  day?" 

"He  went  away.  Wait  a  bit!  Said  he  had 
business  for  an  excuse." 

"  That  is  to  say,  he  kept  up  the  deception  with 
the  people  of  the  inn  ?  and  left  the  lady  behind 
him,  in  the  character  of  his  wife?" 

"That's  it." 

"  Did  he  go  back  to  the  inn  ?" 

"No." 

"  How  long  did  the  lady  stay  there,  after  he 
had  gone  ?" 

"She  staid — well,  she  staid  a  few  days." 

"And  your  friend  has  not  seen  her  since?" 

"No." 

"Are  your  friend  and  the  lady  English  or 
Scotch?" 

"Both  English." 

"At  the  time  when  they  met  at  the  inn,  had 
they  either  of  them  arrived  in  Scotland,  from  the 
place  in  which  they  were  previously  living,  within 
a  period  of  less  than  twenty-one  days  ?" 

Geoffrey  hesitated.  There  could  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  answering  for  Anne.  Lady  Lundie  and 
her  domestic  circle  had  occupied  Windygates  for 
a  much  longer  period  than  three  weeks  before  the 
date  of  the  lawn-party.  The  question,  as  it  af- 
fected Arnold,  was  the  only  question  that  required 
reflection.  After  searching  his  memory  for  de- 
tails of  the  conversation  which  had  taken  place 
between  them,  when  he  and  Arnold  had  met 
at  the  lawn-party,  Geoffrey  recalled  a  certain 
F 


reference  on  the  part  of  his  friend  to  a  per- 
formance at  the  Edinburgh  theatre,  which  at 
once  decided  the  question  of  time.  Arnold  had 
been  necessarily  detained  in  Edinburgh,  before 
his  arrival  at  Windygates,  by  legal  business  con- 
nected with  his  inheritance ;  and  he,  like  Anne, 
had  certainly  been'  in  Scotland,  before  they  met 
at  Craig  Fernie,  for  a  longer  period  than  a  period 
of  three  weeks.  He  accordingly  informed  Sir 
Patrick  that  the  lady  and  gentleman  had  been 
in  Scotland  for  more  than  twenty-one  days — and 
then  added  a  question  on  his  own  behalf:  "Don't 
let  me  hurry  you,  Sir — but,  shall  you  soon  have 
done  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  done,  after  two  more  questions," 
answered  Sir  Patrick.  "Am  I  to  understand 
that  the  lady  claims,  on  the  strength  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  you  have  mentioned  to  me, 
to  be  your  friend's  wife  ?" 

Geoffrey  made  an  affirmative  reply.  The 
readiest  means  of  obtaining  Sir  Patrick's  opinion 
was,  in  this  case,  to  answer,  Yes.  In  other 
words,  to  represent  Anne  (in  the  character  of 
"  the  lady")  as  claiming  to  be  married  to  Arnold 
(in  the  character  of  "  his  friend"). 

Having  made  this  concession  to  circumstances, 
he  was,  at  the  same  time,  quite  cunning  enough 
to  see  that  it  was  of  vital  importance  to  the  pur- 
pose which  he  had  in  view,  to  confine  himself 
strictly  to  this  one  perversion  of  the  truth. 
There  could  be  plainly  no  depending  on  the  law- 
yer's opinion,  unless  that  opinion  was  given  on 
the  facts  exactly  as  they  had  occurred  at  the  inn. 
To  the  facts  he  had,  thus  far,  carefully  adhered ; 
and  to  the  facts  (with  the  one  inevitable  depart- 
ure from  them  which  had  been  just  forced  on 
him)  he  determined  to  adhere  to  the  end. 

"Did  no  letters  pass  between  the  lady  and 
gentleman  ?"  pursued  Sir  Patrick. 

"None  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Geoffrey, 
steadily  returning  to  the  truth. 

"I  have  done,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

"  Well  ?  and  what's  your  "opinion  ?" 

"Before  I  give  my  opinion  I  am  bound  to 
preface  it  by  a  personal  statement  which  you  are 
not  to  take,  if  you  please,  as  a  statement  of  the 
law.  You  ask  me  to  decide — on  the  facts  with 
which  you  have  supplied  me — whether  your 
friend  is,  according  to  the  law  of  Scotland,  mar- 
ried or  not  ?" 

Geoffrey  nodded.  "That's  it!"  he  said,  ea- 
gerly. 

"My  experience,  Mr.  Delamayn,  is  that  any 
single  man,  in  Scotland,  may  many  any  single 
woman,  at  any  time,  and  under  any  circum- 
stances. In  short,  after  thirty  years'  practice 
as  a  lawyer,  I  don't  know  what  is  not  a  mar- 
riage in  Scotland. " 

"  In  plain  English,"  said  Geoffrey,  "you  mean 
she's  his  wife?" 

In  spite  of  his  cunning ;  in  spite  of  his  self- 
command,  his  eyes  brightened  as  he  said  those 
words.  And  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke — 
though  too  carefully  guarded  to  be  a  tone  of 
triumph — was,  to  a  fine  ear,  unmistakably  a  tone 
of  relief. 

Neither  the  look  nor  the  tone  was  lost  on  Sir 
Patrick. 

His  first  suspicion,  when  he  sat  down  to  the 

conference,  had  been  the  obvious  suspicion  that, 

in  speaking  of  "  his  friend,"  Geoffrey  was  speak- 

,  ing  of  himself.     But,  like  all  lawyers,  he  habit- 


90 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


ually  distrusted  first  impressions,  his  own  in-- 
eluded.  His  object,  thus  far,  had  been  to  solve 
the  problem  of  Geoffrey's  true  position  and  Geof- 
frey's real  motive.  He  had  set  the  snare  accord- 
ingly, and  had  caught  his  bird. 

It  was  now  plain  to  his  mind — first,  that  this 
man  who  was  consulting  him,  was,  in  all  prob- 
ability, really  speaking  of  the  case  of  another 
person:  secondly,  that  .he  had  an  interest  (of 
what  nature  it  was  impossible  yet  to  say)  in  sat- 
isfying his  own  mind  that  "his  friend"  was,  by 
the  law  of  Scotland,  indisputably  a  married  man. 
Having  penetrated  to  that  extent  the  secret  which 
Geoffrey  was  concealing  from  him,  he  abandoned 
the  hope  of  making  any  further  advance  at  that 
present  sitting.  The  next  question  to  clear  up 
in  the  investigation,  was  the  question  of*who  the 
anonymous  "  lady"  might  be.  And  the  next 
discovery  to  make  was,  whether  "the  lady" 
could,  or  could  not,  be  identified  with  Anne  Sil- 
vester. Pending  the  inevitable  delay  in  reach- 
ing that  result,  the  straight  course  was  (in  Sir 
Patrick's  present  state  of  uncertainty)  the  only 
course  to  follow  in  laying  down  the  law.  He  at 
once  took  the  question  of  the  marriage  in  hand — 
with  no  concealment  whatever,  as  to  the  legal 
bearings  of  it,  from  the  client  who  was  consult- 
ing him. 

"Don't  rush  to  conclusions,  Mr.  Delamayn'," 
he  said.  "I  have  only  told  you  what  my  gen- 
eral experience  is  thus  far.  My  professional 
opinion  on  the  special  case  of  your  friend  has 
not  been  given  yet." 

Geoffrey's  face  clouded  again.  Sir  Patrick 
carefully  noted  the  new  change  in  it. 

"The  law  of  Scotland,"  he  went  on,  "so  far 
as  it  relates  to  Irregular  Marriages,  is  an  outrage 
on  common  decency  and  common-sense.  If  you 
think  my  language  in  thus  describing  it  too  strong 
— I  can  refer  you  to  the  language  of  a  judicial 
authority.  Lord  Deas  delivered  a  recent  judg- 
ment of  marriage  in  Scotland,  from  the  bench,  in 
these  words  :  '  Consent  makes  marriage.  No 
form  or  ceremony,  civil  or  religious ;  no  notice 
before,  or  publication  after ;  no  cohabitation,  no 
writing,  no  witnesses  even,  are  essential  to  the 
constitution  of  this,  the  most  important  contract 
which  two  persons  can  enter  into.' — There  is  a 
Scotch  judge's  own  statement  of  the  law  that  he 
administers !  Observe,  at  the  same  time,  if  you 
please,  that  we  make  full  legal  provision  in 
Scotland  for  contracts  affecting  the  sale  of 
houses  and  lands,  horses  and  dogs.  The  only 
contract  which  we  leave  without  safeguards  or 
precautions  of  any  sort  is  the  contract  that  unites 
a  man  and  a  woman  for  life.  As  for  the  author- 
ity of  parents,  and  the  innocence  of  children,  our 
law  recognizes  no  claim  on  it  either  in  the  one 
case  or  in  the  other.  A  girl  of  twelve  and  a 
boy  of  fourteen  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  cross 
the  Border,  and  to  be  married — without  the  in- 
terposition of  the  slightest  delay  or  restraint,  and 
without  the  slightest  attempt  to  inform  their  par- 
ents on  the  part  of  the  Scotch  law.  As  to  the 
marriages  of  men  and  women,  even  the  mere  in- 
terchange of  consent  which,  as  you  have  just 
heard,  makes  them  man  and  wife,  is  not  required 
to  be  directly  proved :  it  may  be  proved  by  in- 
ference. And,  more  even  than  that,  whatever 
the  law  for  its  consistency  may  presume,  men 
and  women  are,  in  point  of  fact,  held  to  be  mar- 
ried in  Scotland  where  consent  has  never  been 


interchanged,  and  where  the  parties  do  not  even 
know  that  they  are  legally  held  to  be  married 
persons.  Are  you  sufficiently  confused  about  the 
law  of  Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland  by  this 
time,  Mr.  Delamayn  ?  And  have  I  said  enough 
to  justify  the  strong  language  I  used  when  I  un- 
dertook to  describe  it  to  you?" 

"Who's  that  'authority'  you  talked  of  just 
now?"  inquired  Geoffrey.  "Couldn't  I  ask 
him  f" 

"You  might  find  him  flatly  contradicted,  if 
you  did  ask  him,  by  another  authority  equally 
learned  and  equally  eminent, "answered  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "  I  am  not  joking — I  am  only  stating 
facts.  Have  you  heard  of  the  Queen's  Commis- 
sion?" 

"No." 

"Then  listen  to  this.  In  March,  'sixty-five, 
the  Queen  appointed  a  Commission  to  inquire 
into  the  Marriage-Laws  of  the  United  Kingdom. 
The  Report  of  that  Commission  is  published  in 
London ;  and  is  accessible  to  any  body  who 
chooses  to  pay  the  price  of  two  or  three  shillings 
for  it.  .One  of  the  results  of  the  inquiry  was, 
the  discovery  that  high  authorities  were  of  en- 
tirely contrary  opinions  on  one  of  the  vital  ques- 
tions of  Scottish  marriage-law.  And  the  Com- 
missioners, in  announcing  that  fact,  add  that  the 
question  of  which  opinion  is  right  is  still  disputed, 
and  has  never  been  made  the  subject  of  legal  de- 
cision. Authorities  are  every  where  at  variance 
throughout  the  Report.  A  haze  of  doubt  and 
uncertainty  hangs  in  Scotland  over  the  most  im- 
portant contract  of  civilized  life.  If  no  other 
reason  existed  for  reforming  the  Scotch  mar- 
riage-law, there  would  be  reason  enough  afforded 
by  that  one  fact.  An  uncertain  marriage-law  is 
a  national  calamity." 

"  You  can  tell  me  what  you  think  yourself 
about  my  friend's  case — can't  you  ?"  said  Geof- 
frey, still  holding  obstinately  to  the  end  that  he 
had  in  view. 

"  Certainly.  Now  that  I  have  given  you  due 
warning  of  the  danger  of  implicitly  relying  on 
any  individual  opinion,  I  may  give  my  opinion 
with  a  clear  conscience.  I  say  that  there  has 
not  been  a  positive  marriage  in  this  case.  There 
has  been  evidence  in  favor  of  possibly  establish- 
ing a  marriage — nothing  more." 

The  distinction  here  was  far  too  fine  to  be  ap- 
preciated by  Geoffrey's  mind.  He  frowned  heav- 
ily, in  bewilderment  and  disgust. 

"Not  married!"  he  exclaimed,  "when  they 
said  they  were  man  and  wife,  before  witnesses  ?" 

"That  is  a  common  popular  error,"  said  Sir 
Patrick.  "  As  I  have  already  told  you,  witnesses 
are  not  legally  necessary  to  make  a  marriage  in 
Scotland.  They  are  only  valuable — as  in  this 
case — to  help,  at  some  future  time,  in  proving  a 
marriage  that  is  in  dispute. " 

Geoffrey  caught  at  the  last  words. 

"The  landlady  and  the  waiter  might  make  it 
out  to  be  a  marriage,  then  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  And,  remember,  if  you  choose  to  ap- 
ply to  one  of  my  professional  colleagues,  he  might 
possibly  tell  you  they  were  married  already.  A 
state  of  the  law  which  allows  the  interchange  of 
matrimonial  consent  to  be  proved  by  inference 
leaves  a  wide  door  open  to  conjecture.  Your 
friend  refers  to  a  certain  lady,  in  so  many  words, 
as  his  wife.  The  lady  refers  to  your  friend,  in 
so  many  words,  as  her  husband.  In  the  rooms 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


91 


which  they  have  taken,  as  man  and  wife,  they 
remain,  as  man  and  wife,  till  the  next  morning. 
Your  friend  goes  away,  without  undeceiving  any 
body.  The  lady  stays  at  the  inn,  for  some  days 
after,  in  the  character  of  his  wife.  And  all  these 
circumstances  take  place  in  the  presence  of  com- 
petent witnesses.  Logically — if  not  legally — 
there  is  apparently  an  inference  of  the  inter- 
change of  matrimonial  consent  here.  I  stick 
to  my  own  opinion,  nevertheless.  Evidence  in 
proof  of  a  marriage  (I  say)— nothing  more." 

While  Sir  Patrick  had  been  speaking,  Geoffrey 
had  been  considering  with  himself.  By  dint  of 
hard  thinking  he  had  found  his  way  to  a  decisive 
question  on  his  side. 

"Look  here!"  he  said,  dropping  his  heavy 
hand  down  on  the  table.  "  I  want  to  bring  you 
to  book,  Sir !  Suppose  my  friend  had  another 
lady  in  his  eye?" 

"Yes?" 

"  As  things  are  now — would  you  advise  him  to 
marry  her?" 

"  As  things  are  now — certainly  not !" 

Geoffrey  got  briskly  on  his  legs,  and  closed  the 
interview. 

"That  will  do,"  he  said,  "for  him  and  for 
me." 

With  those  words  he  walked  back,  without 
ceremony,  into  the  main  thoroughfare  of  the 
room. 

"I  don't  know  who  your  friend  is,"  thought 
Sir  Patrick,  looking  after  him.  "But  if  your 
interest  in  the  question  of  his  marriage  is  an 
honest  and  a  harmless  interest,  I  know  no  more 
of  human  nature  than  the  babe  unborn ! " 

Immediately  on  leaving  Sir  Patrick,  Geoffrey 
was  encountered  by  one  of  the  servants  in  search 
of  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  began  the  man. 
"The  groom  from  the  Honorable  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn's — " 

"  Yes  ?  The  fellow  who  brought  me  a  note 
from  my  brother  this  morning?" 

"He's  expected  back,  Sir  —  he's  afraid  he 
mustn't  wait  any  longer." 

"Come  here,  and  I'll  give  you  the  answer  for 
him." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  writing-table,  and  re- 
ferred to  Julius's  letter  again.  He  ran  his  eye 
carelessly  over  it,  until  he  reached  the  final  lines : 
"Come  to-morrow,  and  help  us  to  receive  Mrs. 
Glenarm."  For  a  while  he  paused,  with  his  eye 
fixed  on  that  sentence ;  and  with  the  happiness 
of  three  people — of  Anne,  who  had  loved  him ; 
of  Arnold,  who  had  served  him;  of  Blanche, 
guiltless  of  injuring  him — resting  on  the  decision 
that  guided  his  movements  for  the  next  day. 
After  what  had  passed  that  morning  between 
Arpold  and  Blanche,  if  he  remained  at  Lady 
Lundie's,  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  perform 
his  promise  to  Anne.  If  he  returned  to  his  broth- 
er's house,  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  desert 
Anne,  on  the  infamous  pretext  that  she  was  Ar- 
nold's wife. 

He  suddenly  tossed  the  letter  away  from  him 
on  the  table,  and  snatched  a  sheet  of  note-paper 
out  of  the  writing-case.  "Here  goes  for  Mrs. 
Glenavm!''  he  said  to  himself;  and  wrote  back 
to  his  brother,  in  one  line :  "  Dear  Julius,  Ex- 
pect me  to-morrow.  G.  D."  The  impassible 
man-servant  stood  by  while  he  wrote,  looking  at 
his  magnificent  breadth  of  chest,  and  thinking 


what  a  glorious  "staying-power"  was  there  for 
the  last  terrible  mile  of  the  coming  race. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said,  and  handed  his 
note  to  the  man. 

"All  right,  Geoffrey?"  asked, a  friendly  voice 
behind  him. 

He  turned — and  saw  Arnold,  anxious  for  news 
of  the  consultation  with  Sir  Patrick. 

' '  Yes, "  he  said.     ' '  All  right. " 

NOTE. — There  are  certain  readers  who  feel  a  dispo- 
sition to  doubt  Facts,  when  they  meet  with  them  in  a 
work  of  fiction.  Persons  of  this  way  of  thinking  may 
be  profitably  referred  to  the  book  which  first  suggest- 
ed to  me  the  idea  of  writing  the  present  Novel.  The 
book  is  the  Report  of  the  Royal  Commissioners  on  The 
Laws  of  Marriage.  Published  by  the  Queen's  Printers. 
For  her  Majesty's  Stationery  Office.  (London,  1868.) 
What  Sir  Patrick  says  professionally  of  Scotch  Mar- 
riages in  this  chapter  is  taken  from  this  high  authori- 
ty. What  the  lawyer  (in  the  Prologue)  says  profes- 
sionally of  Irish  Marriages  is  also  derived  from  the 
same  source.  It  is  needless  to  encumber  these  pages 
with  quotations.  But  as  a  means  of  satisfying  my 
readers  that  they  may  depend  on  me,  I  subjoin  an  ex- 
tract from  my  list  of  references  to  the  Report  of  the 
Marriage  Commission,  which  any  persons  who  may  be 
so  inclined  can  verify  for  themselves. 

Irish  Marriages  (in  the  Prologue).  —  See  Report, 
pages  XII.,  XIIL,  XXIV. 

Irregular  Marriages  in  Scotland. — Statement  of  the 
law  by  Lord  Deas.  Report,  page  XVI. — Marriages  of 
children  of  tender  years.  Examination  of  Mr.  Muir- 
head  by  Lord  Chelmsford  (Question  689). — Interchange 
of  consent,  established  by  inference.  Examination  of 
Mr.  Muirhead  by  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk  (Question 
654). — Marriage  where  consent  has  never  been  inter- 
changed. Observations  of  Lord  Deas.  Report,  page 
XIX.— Contradiction  of  opinions  between  authorities. 
Report,  pages  XIX.,  XX. — Legal  provision  for  the  sale 
of  horses  and  dogs.  No  legal  provision  for  the  mar- 
riage of  men  and  women.  Mr.  Seeton's  Remarks. 
Report,  page  XXX. — Conclusion  of  the  Commission- 
ers. In  spite  of  the  arguments  advanced  before  them 
in  favor  of  not  interfering  with  Irregular  Marriages  in 
Scotland,  the  Commissioners  declare  their  opinion 
that  "Such  marriages  ought  not  to  continue."  (Re- 
port, page  XXXIV.) 

In  reference  to  the  arguments  (alluded  to  above)  In 
favor  of  allowing  the  present  disgraceful  state  of 
things  to  continue,  I  find  them  resting  mainly  on  these 
grounds :  That  Scotland  doesn't  like  being  interfered 
with  by  England  (!).  That  Irregular  Marriages  cost 
nothing  (! !).  That  they  are  diminishing  in  number, 
and  may  therefore  be  trusted,  in  course  of  time,  to  ex- 
haust themselves  (! ! !).  That  they  act,  on  certain  oc- 
casions, in  the  capacity  of  a  moral  trap  to  catch  a  prof- 
ligate man  (! ! ! !).  Such  is  the  elevated  point  of  view 
from  which  the  Institution  of  Marriage  is  regarded  by 
some  of  the  most  pious  and  learned  men  in  Scotland. 
A  legal  enactment  providing  for  the  sale  of  your  wife, 
when  you  have  done  with  her,  or  of  your  husband, 
when  you  "  really  can't  put  up  with  him  any  longer," 
appears  to  be  all  that  is  wanting  to  render  this  North 
British  estimate  of  the  "Estate  of  Matrimony"  prac- 
tically complete.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that,  of  the 
witnesses  giving  evidence — oral  and  written — before 
the  Commissioners,  fully  one-half  regard  the  Irregular 
Marriages  of  Scotland"  from  the  Christian  and  the 
civilized  ooint  of  view,  and  entirely  agree  with  the 
authoritative  conclusion  already  cited— that  such  mar- 
riages ought  to  Be  abolished.  W.  C. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIRST. 
DONE! 

ARNOLD  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  curt 
manner  in  which  Geoffrey  answered  him. 

"  Has  Sir  Patrick  said  any  thing  unpleasant?" 
he  asked. 

'•  Sir  Patrick  has  said  just  what  I  wanted  him 
to  say." 

"  No  difficulty  about  the  marriage  ?" 

"None." 


92 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"No  fear  of  Blanche— " 

"She  won't  ask  you  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie — 
I'll  answer  for  that !"  He  said  the  words  with  a 
strong  emphasis  on  them,  took  his  brother's  let- 
ter from  the  table,  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  went 
out. 

His  friends,  idling  on  the  lawn,  hailed  him. 
He  passed  by  them  quickly  without  answering, 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  them  over  his 
shoulder.  Arriving  at  the  rose-garden,  he  stopped 
and  took  out  his  pipe ;  then  suddenly  changed 
his  mind,  and  turned  back  again  by  another 
path.  There  was  no  certainty,  at  that  hour  of 
the  day,  of  his  being  left  alone  in  the  rose-gar- 
den. He  had  a  fierce  and  hungry  longing  to  be 
by  himself;  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  been  the 
death  of  any  body  who  came  and  spoke  to  him 
at  that  moment.  With  his  head  down  and  his 
brows  knit  heavily,  he  followed  the  path  to  see 
what  it  ended  in.  It  ended  in  a  wicket-gate 
which  led  into  a  kitchen-garden.  Here  he  was 
well  out  of  the  way  of  interruption :  there  was 
nothing  to  attract  visitors  in  the  kitchen-garden. 
He  went  on  to  a  walnut-tree  planted  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  inclosure,  with  a  wooden  bench  and 
a  broad  strip  of  turf  running  round  it.  After 
first  looking  about  him,  he  seated  himself  and 
lit  his  pipe. 

"  I  wish  it  was  done ! "  he  said. 

He  sat,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  smoking 
and  thinking.  Before  long  the  restlessness  that 
had  got  possession  of  him  forced  him  to  his  feet 
again.  He  rose,  and  paced  round  and  round 
the  strip  of  green-sward  under  the  walnut-tree, 
like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage.  • 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  disturbance  in 
the  inner  man?  Now  that  he  had  committed 
himself  to  the  betrayal  of  the  friend  who  had 
trusted  and  served  him,  was  he  torn  by  remorse  ? 

He  was  no  more  torn  by  remorse  than  you  are 
while  your  eye  is  passing  over  this  sentence.  He 
was  simply  in  a  raging  fever  of  impatience  to  see 
himself  safely  landed  at  the  end  which  he  had  in 
view. 

Why  should  he  feel  remorse?  All  remorse 
springs,  more  or  less  directly,  from  the  action  of 
two  sentiments,  which  are  neither  of  them  inbred 
in  the  natural  man.  The  first  of  these  senti- 
ments is  the  product  of  the  respect  which  we 
learn  to  feel  for  ourselves.  The  second  is  the 
product  of  the  respect  which  we  learn  to  feel  for 
others.  In  their  highest  manifestations,  these 
two  feelings  exalt  themselves,  until  the  first  be- 
comes the  love  of  God,  and  the  second  the  love 
of  Man.  I  have  injured  you,  and  I  repent  of  it 
when  it  is  done.  Why  should  I  repent  of  it  if  I 
have  gained  something  by  it  for  my  own  self, 
and  if  you  can't  make  me  feel  it  by  injuring  Me  ? 
I  repent  of  it,  because  there  has  been  a  sense 
put  into  me  which  tells  me  that  I  have  sinned 
against  Myself,  and  sinned  against  You.  No 
such  sense  as  that  exists  among  the  instincts  of 
the  natural  man.  And  no  such  feelings  as  these 
troubled  Geoffrey  Delamayn ;  for  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  was  the  natural  man. 

When  the  idea  of  his  scheme  had  sprung  to 
life  in  his  mind,  the  novelty  of  it  had  startled 
him — the  enormous  daring  of  it,  suddenly  self- 
revealed,  had  daunted  him.  The  signs  of  emo- 
tion which  he  had  betrayed  at  the  writing-table 
in  the  library  were  the  signs  of  mere  mental  per- 
turbation, and  of  nothing  more. 


That  first  vivid  impression  past,  the  idea  had 
made  itself  familiar  to  him.  He  had  become 
composed  enough  to  see  such  difficulties  as  it  in- 
volved, and  such  consequences  as  it  implied. 
These  had  fretted  him  with  a  passing  trouble ; 
for  these  he  plainly  discerned.  As  for  the  cru- 
elty and  the  treachery  of  the  thing  he  meditated 
doing — that  consideration  never  crossed  the  lim- 
its of  his  mental  view.  His  position  toward  the 
man  whose  life  he  had  preserved  was  the  posi- 
tion of  a  dog.  The  "noble  animal"  who  has 
saved  you  or  me  from  drowning  will  fly  at  your 
throat  or  mine,  under  certain  conditions,  ten 
minutes  afterward.  Add  to  the  dog's  unreason- 
ing instinct  the  calculating  cunning  of  a  man ; 
suppose  yourself  to  be  in  a  position  to  say  of  some 
trifling  thing,  "Curious!  at  such  and  such  a  time 
I  happened  to  pick  up  such  and  such  an  object ; 
and  now  it  turns  out  to  be  of  some  use  to  me !" — 
and  there  you  have  an  index  to  the  state  of 
Geoffrey's  feeling  toward  his  friend  when  he  re- 
called the  past  or  when  he  contemplated  the  fu- 
ture. When  Arnold  had  spoken  to  him  at  the 
critical  moment,  Arnold  had  violently  irritated 
him  ;  and  that  was  all. 

The  same  impenetrable  insensibility,  the  same 
primitively  natural  condition  of  the  moral  being, 
prevented  him  from  being  troubled  by  the  slight- 
est sense  of  pity  for  Anne.  ' '  She's  out  of  my 
way!"  was  his  first  thought.  "She's  provided 
for,  without  any  trouble  to  Me !"  was  his  second. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  uneasy  about  her.  Not 
the  slightest  doubt  crossed  his  mind  that,  when 
once  she  had  realized  her  own  situation,  when 
once  she  saw  herself  placed  between  the  two  al- 
ternatives of  facing  her  own  ruin  or  of  claiming 
Arnold  as  a  last  resource,  she  would  claim  Ar- 
nold. She  would  do  it  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
because  he  would  have  done  it  in  her  place. 

But  he  wanted  it  over.  He  was  wild,  as  he 
paced  round  and  round  the  walnut-tree,  to  hurry 
on  the  crisis  and  be  done  with  it.  Give  me  my 
freedom  to  go  to  the  other  woman,  and  to  train 
for  the  foot-race — that's  what  I  want.  They  in- 
jured? Confusion  to  them  both!  It's  I  who 
am  injured  by  them.  They  are  the  worst  ene- 
mies I  have !  They  stand  in  my  way. 

How  to  be  rid  of  them  ?  There  was  the  diffi- 
culty. He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  rid  of 
them  that  day.  How  was  he  to  begin  ? 

There  was  no  picking  a  quarrel  with  Arnold, 
and  so  beginning  with  him.  This  course  of  pro- 
ceeding, in  Arnold's  position  toward  Blanche, 
would  lead  to  a  scandal  at  the  outset — a  scandal 
which  would  stand  in  the  way  of  his  making  the 
right  impression  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  The  woman 
— lonely  and  friendless,  with  her  sex  and  her  po- 
sition both  against  her  if  she  tried  to  make  a 
scandal  of  it — the  woman  was  the  one  to  begin 
with.  Settle  it  at  once  and  forever  with  Anne ; 
and  leave  Arnold  to  hear  of  it  and  deal  with  it, 
sooner  or  later,  no  matter  which. 

How  was  he  to  break  it  to  her  before  the  day 
was  out? 

By  going  to  the  inn  and  openly  addressing  her 
to  her  face  as  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth?  No ! 
He  had  had  enough,  at  Windygates,  of  meeting 
her  face  to  face.  The  easy  way  was  to  write  to 
her,  and  send  the  letter,  by  the  first  messenger 
he  could  find,  to  the  inn.  She  might  appear 
afterward  at  Windygates ;  she  might  follow  him 
to  his  brother's ;  sheanight  appeal  to  his  father. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


93 


It  didn't  matter ;  he  had  got  the  whip-hand  of 
her  now.  "You  are  a  married  woman."  There 
was  the  one  sufficient  answer,  which  was  strong 
enough  to  back  him  in  denying  any  thing ! 

He  made  out  the  letter  in  his  own  mind. 
"Something  like  this  would  do,"  he  thought,  as 
he  went  round  and  round  the  walnut-tree: 
"  You  may  be  surprised  not  to  have  seen  me. 
You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it.  I  know 
what  took  place  between  you  and  him  at  the  inn. 
I  have  had  a  lawyers  advice.  You  are  Arnold 
Brinkworths  wife.  I  wish  you  joy,  and  good- 
by  forever."  Address  those  lines:  "To  Mrs. 
Arnold  Brinkworth ; "  instruct  the  messenger  to 
leave  the  letter  late  that  night,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer;  start  the  first  thing  the  next 
morning  for  his  brother's  house ;  and  behold,  it 
was  done! 

But  even  here  there  was  an  obstacle — one  last 
exasperating  obstacle — still  in  the  way. 

If  she  was  known  at  the  inn  by  any  name  at 
all,  it  was  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Silvester.  A  let- 
ter addressed  to  "Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth" 
would  probably  not  be  taken  in  at  the  door ;  or 
if  it  was  admitted,  and  if  it  was  actually  offered 
to  her,  she  might  decline  to  receive  it,  as  a  let- 
ter not  addressed  to  herself.  A  man  of  readier 
mental  resources  would  have  seen  that  the  name 
on  the  outside  of  the  letter  mattered  little  or  no- 
thing, so  long  as  the  contents  were  read  by  the 
person  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  But  Geof- 
frey's was  the  order  of  mind  which  expresses  dis- 
turbance by  attaching  importance  to  trifles.  He 
attached  an  absurd  importance  to  preserving  ab- 
solute consistency  in  his  letter,  outside  and  in. 
If  he  declared  her  to  be  Arnold  Brinkworth's 
wife,  he  must  direct  to  her  as  Arnold  Brink- 
worth's  wife ;  or  who  could  tell  what  the  law 
might  say,  or  what  scrape  he  might  not  get  him- 
self into  by  a  mere  scratch  of  the  pen !  The 
more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  persuaded  he 
felt  of  his  own  cleverness  here,  and  the  hotter 
and  the  angrier  he  grew. 

There  is  a  way  out  of  every  thing.  And  there 
was  surely  a  way  out  of  this,  if  he  could  only  see 
it. 

He  failed  to  see  it.  After  dealing  with  all  the 
great  difficulties,  the  small  difficulty  proved  too 
much  for  him.  It  struck  him  that  he  might  have 
been  thinking  too  long  about  it — considering  that 
he  was  not  accustomed  to  thinking  long  about 
any  thing.  Besides,  his  head  was  getting  giddy, 
with  going  mechanically  round  and  round  the 
tree.  He  irritably  turned  his  back  on  the  tree, 
and  struck  into  another  path :  resolved  to  think 
of  something  else,  and  then  to  return  to  his  diffi- 
culty, and  see  it  with  a  new  eye. 

Leaving  his  thoughts  free  to  wander  where 
they  liked,  his  thoughts  naturally  busied  them- 
selves with  the  next  subject  that  was  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  the  subject  of  the  Foot-Race.  In  a 
week's  time  his  arrangements  ought  to  be  made. 
Now,  as  to  the  training,  first. 

He  decided  on  employing  two  trainers  this 
time.  One  to  travel  to  Scotland,  and  begin  with 
him  at  his  brother's  house.  The  other  to  take 
him  up,  with  a  fresh  eye  to  him,  on  his  return  to 
London.  He  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  per- 
formances of  the  formidable  rival  against  whom 
he  was  to  be  matched.  That  other  man  was  the 
swiftest  runner  of  the  two.  The  betting  in  Geof- 
frey's favor  was  betting  which  calculated  on  the 


unparalleled  length  of  the  race,  and  on  Geoffrey's 
prodigious  powers  of  endurance.  How  long  he 
should  "wait  on"  the  man?  Whereabouts  it 
would  be  safe  to  "  pick  the  man  np  ?"  How  near 
the  end  to  calculate  the  man's  exhaustion  to  a 
nicety,  and  "put  on  the  spurt,"  and  pass  him? 
These  were  nice  points  to  decide.  The  delibera- 
tions of  a  pedestrian-privy-council  would  be  re- 
quired to  help  him  under  this  heavy  responsibili- 
ty. What  men  could  he  trust  ?  He  could  trust 
A.  and  B. — both  of  them  authorities:  both  of 
them  stanch.  Query  about  C.  ?  As  an  author- 
ity, unexceptionable ;  as  a  man,  doubtful.  The 
problem  relating  to  C.  brought  him  to  a  stand- 
still— and  declined  to  be  solved,  even  then.  Nev- 
er mind !  he  could  always  take  the  advice  of  A. 
and  B.  In  the  mean  time,  devote  C.  to  the  in- 
fernal regions ;  and,  thus  dismissing  him,  try  and 
think  of  something  else.  What  else?  Mrs. 
Glenarm  ?  Oh,  bother  the  women !  one  of  them 
is  the  same  as  another.  They  all  waddle  when 
they  run ;  and  they  all  fill  their  stomachs  before 
dinner  with  sloppy  tea.  That's  the  only  differ- 
ence between  women  and  men — the  rest  is  no- 
thing but  a  weak  imitation  of  Us.  Devote  the 
women  to  the  infernal  regions ;  and,  so  dismiss- 
ing them,  try  and  think  of  something  else.  Of 
what?  Of  something  worth  thinking  of,  this 
time — of  filling  another  pipe. 

He  took  out  his  tobacco-pouch ;  and  sudden- 
ly suspended  operations,  at  the  moment  of  open- 
ing it. 

What  was  the  object  he  saw,  dn  the  other  side 
of  a  row  of  dwarf  pear-trees,  away  to  the  right  ? 
A  woman— evidently  a  servant  by  her  dress — 
stooping  down  with  her  back  to  him,  gathering 
something:  herbs  they  looked  like,  as  well  as 
he  could  make  them  out  at  the  distance. 

What  was  that  thing  hanging  by  a  string  at 
the  woman's  side  ?  A  slate  ?  Yes.  What  the 
deuce  did  she  want  with  a  slate  at  her  side  ?  He 
was  in  search  of  something  to  divert  his  mind — 
and  here  it  was  found.  "  Any  thing  will  do  for 
me,"  he  thought.  "Suppose  I ' chaff'  her  a  lit- 
tle about  her  slate  ?" 

He  called  to  the  woman  across  the  pear-trees. 
"Hullo!" 

The  woman  raised  herself,  and  advanced  to- 
ward him  slowly — looking  at  him,  as  she  came 
on,  with  the  sunken  eyes,  the  sorrow-stricken 
face,  the  stony  tranquillity  of  Hester  Dethridge. 

Geoffrey  was  staggered.  He  had  not  bar- 
gained for  exchanging  the  dullest  producible 
vulgarities  of  human  speech  (called  in  the  lan- 
guage of  slang,  "  Chaff")  with  such  a  woman  as 
this. 

"  What's  that  slate  for?"  he  asked,  not  know- 
ing what  else  to  say,  to  begin  with. 

The  woman  lifted  her  hand  to  her  lips — 
touched  them — and  shook  her  head, 

"  Dumb  ?" 

The  woman  bowed  her  head. 

"Who  are  you?" 

The  woman  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  handed  it 
to  him  over  the  pear-trees.  He  read : — "I  am 
the  cook. " 

"Well,  cook,  were  you  born  dumb?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"What  struck  you  dumb?" 

The  woman  wrote  on  her  slate : — "A  blow." 

"  Who  gave  you  the  blow  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Won't  you  tell  me  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

Her  eyes  had  rested  on  his  face  while  he  was 
questioning  her ;  staring  at  him,  cold,  dull,  and 
changeless  as  the  eyes  of  a  corpse.  Firm  as  his 
nerves  were — dense  as  he  was,  on  all  ordinary 
occasions,  to  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  an  imag- 
inative impression — the  eyes  of  the  dumb  cook 
slowly  penetrated  him  with  a  stealthy  inner  chill. 
Something  crept  at  the  marrow  of  his  back,  and 
shuddered  under  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He  felt 
a  sudden  impulse  to  get  away  from  her.  It  was 
simple  enough  ;  he  had  only  to  say  good-morn- 
ing, and  go  on.  He  did  say  good-morning — but 
he  never  moved.  He  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  and  offered  her  some  money,  as  a  way 
of  making  her  go.  She  stretched  out  her  hand 
across  the  pear-trees  to  take  it — and  stopped 
abruptly,  with  her  arm  suspended  in  the  air.  A 
sinister  change  passed  over  the  deathlike  tran- 
quillity of  her  face.  Her  closed  lips  slowly 
dropped  apart.  Her  dull  eyes  slowly  dilated; 
looked  away,  sideways,  from  his  eyes ;  stopped 
again ;  and  stared,  rigid  and  glittering,  over  his 
shoulder — stared  as  if  they  saw  a  sight  of  horror 
behind  him.  "What  the  devil  are  you  looking 
at?"  he  asked — and  turned  round  quickly,  with 
a  start.  There  was  neither  person  nor  thing  to 
be  seen  behind  him.  He  turned  back  again  to 
the  woman.  The  woman  had  left  him,  under 
the  influence  of  some  sudden  panic.  She  was 
hurrying  away  from  him — running,  old  as  she 
was — flying  the  sight  of  him,  as  .if  the  sight  of 
him  was  the  pestilence. 

"  Mad !"  he  thought — and  turned  his  back  on 
the  sight  of  her. 

He  found  himself  (hardly  knowing  how  he  had 
got  there)  under  the  walnut-tree  once  more.  In 
a  few  minutes  his  hardy  nerves  had  recovered 
themselves — he  could  laugh  over  the  remem- 
brance of  the  strange  impression  that  had  been 
produced  on  him.  "Frightened  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,"  he  thought — "and  that  by  an 
old  woman !  It's  time  I  went  into  training  again, 
when  things  have  come  to  this !" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  close  on  the 
luncheon  hour  up  at  the  house ;  and  he  had  not 
decided  yet  what  to  do  about  his  letter  to  Anne. 
He  resolved  to  decide,  then  and  there. 

The  woman — the  dumb  woman,  with  the  stony 
face  and  the  horrid  eyes  —  reappeared  in  his 
thoughts,  and  got  in  the  way  of  his  decision. 
Pooh !  some  crazed  old  servant,  who  might  once 
have  been  cook ;  who  was  kept  out  of  charity 
now.  Nothing  more  important  than  that.  No 
more  of  her !  no  more  of  her ! 

He  laid  himself  down  on  the  grass,  and  gave 
his  mind  to  the  serious  question.  How  to  ad- 
dress Anne  as  "  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth  ?"  and 
how  to  make  sure  of  her  receiving  the  letter  ? 

The  dumb  old  woman  got  in  his  way  again. 

He  closed  his  eyes  impatiently,  and  tried  to 
shut  her  out  in  a  darkness  of  his  own  making. 

The  woman  showed  herself  through  the  dark- 
ness. He  saw  her,  as  if  he  had  just  asked  her  a 
question,  writing  on  her  slate.  What  she  wrote 
he  failed  to  make  out.  It  was  all  over  in  an  in- 
stant. He  started  up,  with  a  feeling  of  astonish- 
ment at  himself — and,  at  the  same  moment,  his 
brain  cleared  with  the  suddenness  of  a  flash  of 
light.  He  saw  his  way,  without  a  conscious  ef- 
fort on  his  own  part,  through  the  difficulty  that 


had  troubled  him.  Two  envelopes,  of  course : 
an  inner  one,  unsealed,  and  addressed  to  "Mrs. 
Arnold  Brinkworth;"  an  outer  one,  sealed,  and 
addressed  to  "Mrs.  Silvester:"  and  there  was 
the  problem  solved !  Surely  the  simplest  prob- 
lem that  had  ever  puzzled  a  stupid  head. 

Why  had  he  not  seen  it  before  ?  Impossible 
to  say. 

How  came  he  to  have  seen  it  now  ? 

The  dumb  old  woman  reappeared  in  his 
thoughts — as  if  the  answer  to  the  question  lay 
in  something  connected  with  her. 

He  became  alarmed  about  himself,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  Had  this  persistent  impression, 
produced  by  nothing  but  a  crazy  old  woman,  any 
thing  to  do  with  the  broken  health  which  the  sur- 
geon had  talked  about?  Was  his  head  on  the 
turn  ?  Or  had  he  smoked  too  much  on  an  emp- 
ty stomach,  and  gone  too  long  (after  traveling  all 
night)  without  his  customary  drink  of  ale  ? 

He  left  the  garden  to  put  that  latter  theory  to 
the  test  forthwith.  The  betting  would  have  gone 
dead  against  him  if  the  public  had  seen  him  at 
that  moment.  He  looked  haggard  and  anxious 
— and  with  good  reason  too.  His  nervous  sys- 
tem had  suddenly  forced  itself  on  his  notice,  with- 
out the  slightest  previous  introduction,  and  was 
saying  (in  an  unknown  tongue),  Here  I  am ! 

Returning  to  the  purely  ornamental  part  of  the 
grounds,  Geoffrey  encountered  one  of  the  foot- 
men giving  a  message  to  one  of  the  gardeners. 
He  at  once  asked  for  the  butler — as  the  only 
safe  authority  to  consult  in  the  present  emerg- 
ency. 

Conducted  to  the  butler's  pantry,  Geoffrey  re- 
quested that  functionary  to  produce  a  jug  of  his 
oldest  ale,  with  appropriate  solid  nourishment  in 
the  shape  of  "  a  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese." 

The  butler  stared.  As  a  form  of  condescen- 
sion among  the  upper  classes  this  was  quite  new . 
to  him. 

"Luncheon  will  be  ready  directly,  Sir." 

"What  is  there  for  lunch?" 

The  butler  ran  over  an  appetizing  list  of  good 
dishes  and  rare  wines. 

"The  devil  take  your  kickshaws!"  said  Geof- 
frey. ' '  Give  me  my  old  ale,  and  my  hunk  of 
bread  and  cheese." 

"Where  will  you  take  them,  Sir?" 

"  Here,  to  be  sure !  And  the  sooner  the  bet- 
ter." 

The  butler  issued  the  necessary  orders  with  all 
needful  alacrity.  He  spread  the  simple  refresh- 
ment demanded,  before  his  distinguished  guest, 
in  a  state  of  blank  bewilderment.  Here  was  a 
nobleman's  son,  and  a  public  celebrity  into  the 
bargain,  filling  himself  with  bread  and  cheese 
and  ale,  in  at  once  the  most  voracious  and  the 
most  unpretending  manner,  at  his  table !  The 
butler  ventured  on  a  little  complimentary  famil- 
iarity. He  smiled,  and  touched  the  betting-book 
in  his  breast-pocket.  "I've  put  six  pound  on 
you,  Sir,  for  the  Race."  "All  right,  old  boy! 
you  shall  win  your  money!"  With. those  noble 
words  the  honorable  gentleman  clapped  him  on 
the  back,  and  held  out  his  tumbler  for  some 
more  ale.  The  butler  felt  trebly  an  English- 
man as  he  filled  the  foaming  glass.  Ah !  for- 
eign nations  may  have  their  revolutions !  foreign 
aristocracies  may  tumble  down !  The  British 
aristocracy  lives  in  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
and  lives  forever ! 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


95 


"Another!"  said  Geoffrey,  presenting  his 
empty  glass.  "Here's  luck!"  He  tossed  off 
his  liquor  at  a  draught,  and  nodded  to  the 
butler,  and  went  out. 

Had  the  experiment  succeeded?  Had  he 
proved  his  own  theory  about  himself  to  be 
right  ?  Not  a  doubt  of  it !  An  empty  stom- 
ach, and  a  determination  of  tobacco  to  the 
head — these  were  the  true  causes  of  that  strange 
state  of  mind  into  which  he  had  fallen  in  the 
kitchen -garden.  The  dumb  woman  with  the 
stony  face  vanished  as  if  in  a  mist.  He  felt 
nothing  now  but  a  comfortable  buzzing  in  his 
head,  a  genial  warmth  all  over  him,  and  an  un- 
limited capacity  for  carrying  any  responsibility 
that  could  rest  on  mortal  shoulders.  Geoffrey 
was  himself  again. 

He  went  round  toward  the  library,  to  write  his 
letter  to  Anne — and  so  have  done  with  that,  to 
begin  with.  The  company  had  collected  in  the 
library  waiting  for  the  luncheon-bell.  All  were 
idly  talking ;  and  some  would  be  certain,  if  he 
showed  himself,  to  fasten  on  him.  He  turned 
back  again,  without  showing  himself.  The  only 
way  of  writing  in  peace  and  quietness  would  be 
to  wait  until  they  were  all  at  luncheon,  and  then 
return  to  the  library.  The  same  opportunity 
would  serve  also  for  finding  a  messenger  to 
take  the  letter,  without  exciting  attention,  and 
forgoing  away  afterward,  unseen,  on  a  long  walk 
by  himself.  An  absence  of  two  or  three  hours 
would  cast  the  necessary  dust  in  Arnold's  eyes ; 
for  it  would  be  certainly  interpreted  by  him  as 
meaning  absence  at  an  interview  with  Anne. 

He  strolled  idly  through  the  grounds,  farther 
and  farther  away  from  the  house. 

The  talk  in  the  library — aimless  and  empty 
enough,  for  the  most  part — was  talk  to  the  pur- 
pose, in  one  corner  of  the  room,  in  which  Sir 
Patrick  and  Blanche  were  sitting  together. 

"Uncle!  I  have  been  watching  you  for  the 
last  minute  or  two." 

"At  my  age,  Blanche,  that  is  paying  me  a 
very  pretty  compliment. " 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  seen  ?" 

"  You  have  seen  an  old  gentleman  in  want  of 
his  lunch." 

"  I  have  seen  an  old  gentleman  with  something 
on  his  mind.  What  is  it  ?" 

"Suppressed  gout,  my  dear." 

"That  won't  do!  I  am  not  to  be  put  off  in 
that  way.  Uncle !  I  want  to  know — " 

"  Stop  there,  Blanche  !  A  young  lady  who 
says  she  'wants  to  know,'  expresses  very  dan- 
gerous sentiments.  Eve  '  wanted  to  know' — and 
see  what  it  led  to.  Faust  '  wanted  to  know' — 
and  got  into  bad  company,  as  the  necessary  re- 
sult." 

"You  are  feeling  anxious  about  something," 
persisted  Blanche.  "And,  what  is  more,  Sir 
Patrick,  you  behaved  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner  a  little  while  since." 

"When?" 

"When  you  went  and  hid  yourself  with  Mr. 
Delamayn  in  that  snug  corner  there.  I  saw  you 
lead  the  way  in,  while  I  was  at  work  on  Lady 
Lundie's  odious  dinner-invitations." 

"  Oh  !  you  call  that  being  at  work,  do  yon?  I 
wonder  whether  there  was  ever  a  woman  yet  who 
could  give  the  whole  of  her  mind  to  any  earthly 
thing  that  she  had  to  do  ?" 


"  Never  mind  the  women !  What  subject  in 
common  could  you  and  Mr.  Delamayn  possibly 
have  to  talk  about  ?  And  why  do  I  see  a  wrin- 
kle between  your  eyebrows,  now  you  have  done 
with  him?  —  a  wrinkle  which  certainly  wasn't 
there  before  you  had  that  private  conference  to- 
gether ?" 

Before  answering,  Sir  Patrick  considered 
whether  he  should  take  Blanche  into  his  confi- 
dence or  not.  The  attempt  to  identify  Geoffrey's 
unnamed  "lady,"  which  he  was  determined  to 
make,  would  lead  him  to  Craig  Fernie,  and 
would  no  doubt  end  in  obliging  him  to  address 
himself  to  Anne.  Blanche's  intimate  knowledge 
of  her  friend  might  unquestionably  be  made 
useful  to  him  under  these  circumstances ;  and 
Blanche's  discretion  was  to  be  trusted  in  any 
matter  in  which  Miss  Silvester's  interests  were 
concerned.  On  the  other  hand,  caution  was  im- 
peratively necessary,  in  the  present  imperfect 
state  of  his  information — and  caution,  in  Sir  Pat- 
rick's mind,  carried  the  day.  He  decided  to 
wait  and  see  what  came  first  of  his  investigation 
at  the  inn. 

' '  Mr.  Delamayn  consulted  me  on  a  dry  point 
of  law,  in  which  a  friend  of  his  was  interested," 
said  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  have  wasted  your  curi- 
osity, my  dear,  on  a  subject  totally  unworthy  of 
a  lady's  notice." 

Blanche's  penetration  was  not  to  be  deceived 
on  such  easy  terms  as  these.  "  Why  not  say  at 
once  that  you  won't  tell  me?"  she  rejoined. 
"  You  shutting  yourself  up  with  Mr.  Delamayn 
to  talk  law !  You  looking  absent  and  anxious 
about  it  afterward !  I  am  a  very  unhappy  girl !" 
said  Blanche,  with  a  little,  bitter  sigh.  "  There 
is  something  in  me  that  seems  to  repel  the  people 
I  love.  Not  a  word  in  confidence  can  I  get 
from  Anne.  And  not  a  word  in  confidence  can 
I  get  from  you.  And  I  do  so  long  to  sympa- 
thize! It's  very  hard.  I  think  I  shall  go  to 
Arnold." 

Sir  Patrick  took  his  niece's  hand. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Blanche.  About  Miss  Sil- 
vester ?  Have  you  heard  from  her  to-day  ?" 

"  No.  I  am  more  unhappy  about  her  than 
words  can  say." 

"  Suppose  somebody  went  to  Craig  Fernie 
and  tried  to  find  out  the  cause  of  Miss  Silvester's 
silence  ?  Would  you  believe  that  somebody  sym- 
pathized with  you  then  ?" 

Blanche's  face  flushed  brightly  with  pleasure 
and  surprise.'  She  •  raised  Sir  Patrick's  hand 
gratefully  to  her  lips. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  don't  mean 
that  you  would  do  that  ?" 

"  I  am  certainly  the  last  person  who  ought  to 
do  it — seeing  that  you  went  to  the  inn  in  flat  re- 
bellion against  my  orders,  and  that  I  only  for- 
gave you,  on  your  own  promise  of  amendment^ 
the  other  day.  It  is  a  miserably 'weak  proceed- 
ing on  the  part  of  '  the  head  of  the  family'  to  be 
turning  his  back  on  his  own  principles,  because 
his  niece  happens  to  be  anxious  and  unhappy. 
Still  (if  you  could  lend  me  your  little  car- 
riage), I  might  take  a  surly  drive  toward  Craig 
Fernie,  all  by  myself,  and  I  miy/it  stumble 
against  Miss  Silvester — in  case  you  have  any 
thing  to  say. " 

"  Any  thing  to  say  ?"  repeated  Blanche.  She 
put  her  arm  round  her  uncle's  neck,  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear  one  of  the  most  interminable 


96 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


messages  that  ever  was  sent  from  one  human 
being  to  another.  Sir  Patrick  listened,  with  a 
growing  interest  in  the  inquiry  on  which  he  was 
secretly  bent.  "The  woman  must  have  some 
noble  qualities,"  he  thought,  "who  can  inspire 
such  devotion  as  this." 

While  Blanche  was  whispering  to  her  uncle,  a 
second  private  conference — of  the  purely  domes- 
tic sort — was  taking  place  between  Lady  Lundie 
and  the  butler,  in  the  hall  outside  the  library 
door. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  my  kdy,  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  has  broken  out  again. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"She  was  all  right,  my  lady,  when  she  went 
into  the  kitchen-garden,  some  time  since.  .She's 
taken  strange  again,  now  she  has  come  back. 
Wants  the  rest  of  the  day  to  herself,  your  lady- 
ship. Says  she's  overworked,  with  all  the  com- 
pany in  the  house — and,  I  must  say,  does  look 
like  a  person  troubled  and  worn  out  in  body  and 
mind." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Roberts !  The  woman 
is  obstinate  and  idle  and  insolent.  She  is  now 
in  the  house,  as  you  know,  under  a  month's  no- 
tice to  leave.  If  she  doesn't  choose  to  do  her 
duty  for  that  month  I  shall  refuse  to  give  her  a 
character.  Who  is  to  cook  the  dinner  to-day  if 
I  give  Hester  Dethridge  leave  to  go  out  ?" 

"Any  way,  my  lady,  I  am  afraid  the  kitchen- 
maid  will  have  to  do  her  best  to-day.  Hester  is 
very  obstinate,  when  the  fit  takes  her — as  your 
ladyship  says." 

' '  If  Hester  Dethridge  leaves  the  kitchen-maid 
to  cook  the  dinner,  Roberts,  Hester  Dethridge 
leaves  my  service  to-.day.  I  want  no  more  words 
about  it.  If  she  persists  in  setting  my  orders  at 
defiance,  let  her  bring  her  account-book  into  the 
library,  while  we  are  at  lunch,  and  lay  it  on  my 
desk.  I  shall  be  back  in  the  library  after  lunch- 
eon— and  if  I  see  the  account-book  I  shall  know 
what  it  means.  In  that  case,  you  will  receive 
my  directions  to  settle  with  her  and  send  her 
away.  Ring  the  luncheon-bell." 

The  luncheon-bell  rang.  The  guests  all  took 
the  direction  of  the  dining-room ;  Sir  Patrick 
following,  from  the  far  end  of  the  library,  with 
Blanche  on  his  arm.  Arrived  at  the  dining- 
room  door,  Blanche  stopped,  and  asked  her  uncle 
to  excuse  her  if  she  left  him  to  go  in  by  himself. 

"I  will  be  back  directly," she  said.  " I  have 
forgotten  something  up  stairs." 

Sir  Patrick  went  in.  The  dining-room  door 
closed ;  and  Blanche  returned  alone  to  the  libra- 
ry. Now  on  one  pjetense,  and  now  on  another, 
she  had,  for  three  days  past,  faithfully  fulfilled 
the  engagement  she  had  made  at  Craig  Fernie 
to  wait  ten  minutes  after  luncheon-time  in  the 
library,  on  the  chance  of  seeing  Anne.  On 
this,  the  fourth  occasion,  the  faithful  girl  sat 
down  alone  in  the  great  room,  and  waited  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  lawn  outside. 

Five  minutes  passed,  and  nothing  living  ap- 
peared but  the  birds  hopping  about  the  grass. 

In  less  than  a  minute  more  Blanche's  quick 
ear  caught  the  faint  sound  of  a  woman's  dress 
brushing  over  the  lawn.  She  ran  to  the  nearest 
window,  looked  out,  and  clapped  her  hands  with 
a  cry  of  delight.  There  was  the  well-known  fig- 
ure, rapidly  approaching  her!  Anne  was  true 
to  their  friendship — Anne  had  kept  her  engage- 
ment at  last ! 


Blanche  hurried  out,  and  drew  her  into  the  li- 
brary in  triumph.  "This  makes  amends,  love, 
for  every  thing !  You  answer  my  letter  in  the 
best  of  all  ways — you  bring  me  your  own  dear 
self." 

She  placed  Anne  in  a  chair,  and,  lifting  her 
veil,  saw  her  plainly  in  the  brilliant  mid-day  light. 

The  change  in  the  whole  woman  was  nothing 
less  than  dreadful  to  the  loving  eyes  that  rested 
on  her.  She  looked  years  older  than  her  real 
age.  There  was  a  dull  calm  in  her  face,  a  stag- 
nant, stupefied  submission  to  any  thing,  pitiable 
to  see.  Three  days  and  nights  of  solitude  and 
grief,  three  days  and  nights  of  unresting  and  un- 
partaken  suspense,  had  crushed  that  sensitive  na- 
ture, had  frozen  that  warm  heart.  The  ani- 
mating spirit  was  gone — the  mere  shell  of  the 
woman  lived  and  moved,  a  mockery  of  her  for- 
mer self. 

"Oh,  Anne!  Anne!  What  can  have  hap- 
pened to  you  ?  Are  you  frightened  ?  There's 
not  the  least  fear  of  any  body  disturbing  us. 
They  are  all  at  luncheon,  and  the  sen-ants  are  at 
dinner.  We  have  the  room  entirely  to  ourselves. 
My  darling !  you  look  so  faint  and  strange !  Let 
me  get  you  something. " 

Anne  drew  Blanche's  head  down  and  kissed 
her.  It  was  done  in  a  dull,  slow  way — without 
a  word,  without  a  tear,  without  a  sigh. 

"You're  tired — I'm  sure  you're  tired.  Have 
you  walked  here  ?  You  sha'n't  go  back  on  foot ; 
I'll  take  care  of  that ! " 

Anne  roused  herself  at  those  words.  She 
spoke  for  the  first  time.  The  tone  was  lower 
than  was  natural  to  her ;  sadder  than  was  nat- 
ural to  her — but  the  charm  of  her  voice,  the  na- 
tive gentleness,  and  beauty  of  it,  seemed  to  have 
survived  the  wreck  of  all  besides. 

"  I  don't  go  back,  Blanche.  I  have  left  the 
inn." 

"  Left  the  inn  ?    With  your  husband  ?" 

She  answered  the  first  question — not  the  sec- 
ond. 

"I  can't  go  back,"  she  said.  "  The  inn  is  no 
place  for  me.  A  curse  seems  to  follow  me, 
Blanche,  wherever  I  go.  I  am  the  cause  of 
quarreling  and  wretchedness,  without  meaning 
it,  God  knows.  The  old  man  who  is  head-wait- 
er at  the  inn  has  been  kind  to  me,  my  dear,  in 
his  way,  and  he  and  the  landlady  had  hard  words 
together  about  it.  A  quarrel,  a  shocking,  vio- 
lent quarrel.  He  has  lost  his  place  in  conse- 
quence. The  woman,  his  mistress,  lays  all  the 
blame  of  it  to  my  door.  She  is  a  hard  woman ; 
and  she  has  been  harder  than  ever  since  Bishop- 
riggs.  went  away.  I  have  missed  a  letter  at  the 
inn — I  must  have  thrown  it  aside,  I  suppose,  and 
forgotten  it.  I  only  know  that  I  remembered 
about  it,  and  couldn't  find  it  last  night.  I  told 
the  landlady,  and  she  fastened  a  quarrel  on 
me  almost  before  the  words  were  out  of  my 
mouth.  Asked  me  if  I  charged  her  with  steal- 
ing my  letter.  Said  things  to  me — I  can't  repeat 
them.  I  am  not  very  well,  and  not  able  to  deal 
with  people  of  that  sort.  I  thought  it  best  to 
leave  Craig  Fernie  this  morning.  I  hope  and 
pray  I  shall  never  see  Craig  Fernie  again." 

She  told  her  little  story  with  a  total  absence  of 
emotion  of  any  sort,  and  laid  her  head  back  weari- 
ly on  the  chair  when  it  was  done. 

Blanche's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  sight  of 
her. 


I 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


97 


"I  won't  tease  yon  with  questions,  Anne," 
she  said,  gently.  "  Come  up  stairs  and  rest  in 
my  room.  You're  not  fit  to  travel,  love.  I'll 
take  care  that  nobody  comes  near  us." 

The  stable -clock  at  Windy-gates  struck  the 
quarter  to  two.  Anne  raised  herself  in  the  chair 
with  a  start. 

"  What  time  was  that?"  she  asked. 

Blanche  told  her. 

"  I  can't  stay,"  she  said.  "  I  have  come  here 
to  find  something  out,  if  I  can.  You  won't  ask 
me  questions?  Don't,  Blanche,  don't!  for  the 
sake  of  old  times. " 

Blanche  turned  aside,  heart-sick.  "  I  will  do 
nothing,  dear,  to  annoy  you,"  she  said,  and  took 
Anne's  hand,  and  hid  the  tears  that  were  begin- 
ning to  fall  over  her  cheeks. 

"  I  want  to  know  something,  Blanche.  Will 
you  tell  me  ?" 

"Yes.     What  is  it?" 

"Who  are  the  gentlemen  staying  in  the 
house?" 

Blanche  looked  round  at  her  again,  in  sudden 
astonishment  and  alarm.  A  vague  fear  seized 
her  that  Anne's  mind  had  given  way  under  the 
heavy  weight  of  trouble  laid  on  it.  Anne  per- 
sisted in  pressing  her  strange  request. 

' '  Eun  over  their  names,  Blanche.  I  have  a 
reason  for  wishing  to  know  who  the  gentlemen 
are  who  are  staying  in  the  house." 

Blanche  repeated  the  names  of  Lady  Lundie's 
guests,  leaving  to  the  last  the  guests  who  had 
arrived  last. 

"Two  more  came  back  this  morning,"  she 
went  on.  "Arnold  Brinkworth  and  that  hate- 
ful friend  of  his,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Anne's  head  sank  back  once  more  on  the  chair. 
She  had  found  her  way,  without  exciting  sus- 
picion of  the  truth,  to  the  one  discovery  which 
she  had  come  to  Windygates  to  make.  He  was 
in  Scotland  again,  and  he  had  only  arrived  from 
London  that  morning.  There  was  barely  time 
for  him  to  have  communicated  with  Craig  Fernie 
before  she  left  the  inn — he,  too,  who  hated  letter- 
writing  !  The  circumstances  were  all  in  his  fa- 
vor :  there  was  no  reason,  there  was  really  and 
truly  no  reason,  so  far,  to  believe  that  he  had 
deserted  her.  The  heart  of  the  unhappy  woman 
bounded  in  her  bosom,  under  the  first  ray  of  hope 
that  had  warmed  it  for  four  days  past.  Under 
that  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  her  weakened 
frame  shook  from  head  to  foot.  Her  face  flushed 
deep  for  a  moment — then  turned  deadly  pale 
again.  Blanche,  anxiously  watching  her,  saw 
the  serious  necessity  for  giving  some  restorative 
to  her  instantly. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  you  some  wine — you  will 
faint,  Anne,  if  you  don't  take  something.  I  shall 
be  back  in  a  moment ;  and  I  can  manage  it  with- 
out any  body  being  the  wiser. " 

She  pushed  Anne's  chair  close  to  the  nearest 
open  window — a  window  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
library — and  ran  out. 

Blanche  had  barely  left  the  room,  by  the  door 
that  led  into  the  hall,  when  Geoffrey  entered  it  by- 
one  of  the  lower  windows  opening  from  the  lawn. 

With  his  mind  absorbed  in  the  letter  that  he 
was  about  to  write,  he  slowly  advanced  up  the 
room  toward  the  nearest  table.  Anne,  hearing 
the  sound  of  footsteps,  started,  and  looked  round. 
Her  failing  strength  rallied  in  an  instant,  under 
the  sudden  relief  of  seeing  him  again.  She  rose 


and  advanced  eagerly,  with  a  faint  tinge  of  color 
in  her  cheeks.  He  looked  up.  The  two  stood 
face  to  face  together — alone. 

"Geoffrey!" 

He  looked  at  her  without  answering — without 
advancing  a  step,  on  his  side.  There  was  an 
evil  light  in  his  eyes ;  his  silence  was  the  brute 
silence  that  threatens  dumbly.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  never  to  see  her  again,  and  she  had 
entrapped  him  into  an  interview.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  write,  and  there  she  stood  forcing 
him  to  speak.  The  sum  of  her  offenses  against 
him  was  now  complete.  If  there  had  ever  been 
the  faintest  hope  of  her  raising  even  a  passing 
pity  in  his  heart,  that  hope  would  have  been  an- 
nihilated now. 

She  failed  to  understand  the  full  meaning  of 
his  silence.  She  made  her  excuses,  poor  soul, 
for  venturing  back  to  Windygates — her  excuses 
to  the  man  whose  purpose  at  that  moment  was 
to  throw  her  helpless  on  the  world. 

"  Pray  forgive  me  for  coming  here,"  she  said. 
"I  have  done  nothing  to  compromise  you, 
Geoffrey.  Nobody  but  Blanche  knows  I  am  at 
Windygates.  And  I  have  contrived  to  make  my 
inquiries  about  you  without  allowing  her  to  sus- 
pect our  secret."  She  stopped,  and  began  to 
tremble.  She  saw  something  more  in  his  face 
than  she  had  read  in  it  at  first.  "I  got  your 
letter,"  she  went  on,  rallying  her  sinking  courage. 
"I  don't  complain  of  its  being  so  short:  you 
don't  like  letter-writing,  I  know.  But  you  prom- 
ised I  should  hear  from  you  again.  And  I  have 
never  heard.  And  oh,  Geoffrey,  it  was  so  lonely 
at  the  inn!" 

She  stopped  again,  and  supported  herself  by 
resting  her  hand  on  the  table.  The  faintness 
was  stealing  back  on  her.  She  tried  to  go  on 
again.  It  was  useless — she  could  only  look  at 
him  now. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  who  was  putting  an  unimportant  ques- 
tion to  a  total  stranger. 

,  A  last  gleam  of  her  old  energy  flickered  up  in 
her  face,  like  a  dying  flame. 

"  I  am  broken  by  what  I  have  gone  through," 
she  said.  "Don't  insult  me  by  making  me  re- 
mind you  of  your  promise. " 

"  What  promise?" 

"For  shame,  Geoffrey!  for  shame!  Your 
promise  to  many  me. " 

"You  claim  my  promise  after  what  you  have 
done  at  the  inn  ?" 

She  steadied  herself  against  the  table  with  one 
hand,  and  put  the  other  hand  to  her  head.  Her 
brain  was  giddy.  The  effort  to  think  was  too 
much  for  her.  She  said  to  herself,  vacantly, 
"  The  inn  ?  What  did  I  do  at  the  inn  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  lawyer's  advice,  mind !  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  about. " 

She  appeared  not  to  have  heard  IHm.  She  re- 
peated the  words,  "What  did  I  do  at  the  inn?" 
and  gave  it  up  in  despair.  Holding  by  the  table, 
she  came  close  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  Do  you  refuse  to  marry  me  ?"  she  asked. 

He  saw  the  vile  opportunity,  and  said  the  vile 
words. 

"You're  married  already  to  Arnold  Brink- 
worth.  " 

Without  a  cry  to  warn  him,  without  an  effort 
to  save  herself,  she  dropped  senseless  at  his  feet ; 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"HE  TURNED  AND  FLED  BY  THE  OPKN  WINDOW. 


as  her  mother  had  dropped  at  his  father's  feet  in 
the  by-gone  time. 

He  disentangled  himself  from  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  "  Done !"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her 
as  she  lay  on  the  floor. 

'  As  the  word  fell  from  his  lips  he  was  startled 
by  a  sound  in  the  inner  part  of  the  house.  One 
of  the  library  doors  had  not  been  completely 
closed.  Light  footsteps  were  audible,  advancing 
rapidly  across  the  hall. 

He  turned  and  fled,  leaving  the  library,  as  he 
had  entered  it,  by  the  open  window  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SECOND. 


BLANCHE  came  in,  with  a  glass  of  wine  in 
her  hand,  and  saw  the  swooning  woman  on  the 
floor. 

She  was  alarmed,  but  not  surprised,  as  she 
knelt  by  Anne,  and  raised  her  head.  Her  own 
previous  observation  of  her  friend  necessarily 
prevented  her  from  being  at  any  loss  to  account 
for  the  fainting  fit.  The  inevitable  delay  in  get- 
ting the  wine  was — naturally  to  her  mind — alone 
to  blame  for  the  result  which  now  met  her  view. 

If  she  had  been  less  ready  in  thus  tracing  the 
effect  to  the  cause,  she  might  have  gone  to  the 
window  to  see  if  any  thing  had  happened,  out- 
of-doors,  to  frighten  Anne  —  might  have  seen 
Geoffrey  before  he  had  time  to  turn  the  corner 
of  the  house — and,  making  that  one  discovery, 
might  have  altered  the  whole  course  of  events, 
not  in  her  coming  life  only,  but  in  the  coming 
lives  of  others.  So  do  we  shape  our  own  desti- 


nies, blindfold.  So  do  we  hold  our  poor  little 
tenure  of  happiness  at  the  capricious  mercy  of 
Chance.  It  is  surely  a  blessed  delusion  which 
sersuades  us  that  we  are  the  highest  product  of 
;he  great  scheme  of  creation,  and  sets  us  doubt- 
ing whether  other  planets  are  inhabited,  because 
other  planets  are  not  surrounded  by  an  atmos- 
phere which  we  can  breathe ! 

After  trying  such  simple  remedies  as  were 
within  her  reach,  and  trying  them  without  suc- 
cess, Blanche  became  seriously  alarmed.  Anne 
lay,  to  all  outward  appearance,  dead  in  her 
arms.  She  was  on  the  point  of  calling  for  help 
— come  what  might  of  the  discovery  which  would 
ensue — when  the  door  from  the  hall  opened  once 
more,  and  Hester  Dethridge  entered  the  room. 

The  cook  had  accepted  the  alternative  which 
her  mistress's  message  had  placed  before  her, 
if  she  insisted  on  having  her  own  time  at  her 
own  sole  disposal  for  the  rest  of  that  day.  Ex- 
actly as  Lady  Lundie  had  desired,  she  intimated 
her  resolution  to  carry  her  point  by  placing  her 
account-book  on  the  desk  in  the  library.  It  was 
only  when  this  had  been  done  that  Blanche  re- 
ceived any  answer  to  her  entreaties  for  help. 
Slowly  and  deliberately  Hester  Dethridge  walk- 
ed up  to  the  spot  where  the  young  girl  knelt  with 
Anne's  head  on  her  bosom,  and  looked  at  the 
two  without  a  trace  of  human  emotion  in  her 
stern  and  stony  face. 

"Don't  you  see  what's  happened?"  cried 
Blanche.  "Are  you  alive  or  dead?  Oh,  Hes- 
ter, I  can't  bring  her  to!  Look  at  her!  look 
at  her !" 

Hester  Dethridge  looked  at  her,  and  shook 
her  head.  Looked  again,  thought  for  a  while, 
and  wrote  on  her  slate.  Held  out  the  slate  over 
Anne's  body,  and  showed  what  she  had  written : 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


99 


"Who  has  done  it?" 

"  You  stupid  creature !"  said  Blanche.  "No- 
body has  done  it." 

The  eyes  of  Hester  Dethridge  steadily  read 
the  worn  white  face,  telling  its  own  tale  of  sor- 
row mutely  on  Blanche's  breast.  The  mind  of 
Hester  Dethridge  steadily  looked  back  at  her 
own  knowledge  of  her  own  miserable  married 
life.  She  again  returned  to  writing  on  her  slate 
— again  showed  the  written  words  to  Blanche. 

"Brought  to  it  by  a  man.  Let  her  be — and 
God  will  take  her. " 

"You  horrid  unfeeling  woman !  how  dare  you 
write  such  an  abominable  thing!"  With  this 
natural  outburst  of  indignation,  Blanche  looked 
back  at  Anne;  and,  daunted  by  the  deathlike 
persistency  of  the  swoon,  appealed  again  to  the 
mercy  of  the  immovable  woman  who  was  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "Oh,  Hester!  for  Heaven's 
sake  help  me!" 

The  cook  dropped  her  slate  at  her  side,  and 
bent  her  head  gravely  in  sign  that  she  submit- 
ted. She  motioned  to  Blanche  to  loosen  Anne's 
dress,  and  then — kneeling  on  one  knee — took 
Anne  to  support  her  while  it  was  being  done. 

The  instant  Hester  Dethridge  touched  her, 
the  swooning  woman  gave  signs  of  life. 

A  faint  shudder  ran  through  her  from  head  to 
foot — her  eyelids  trembled — half  opened  for  a 
moment — and  closed  again.  As  they  closed,  a 
low  sigh  fluttered  feebly  from  her  lips. 

Hester  Dethridge  put  her  back  in  Blanche's 
arms — considered  a  little  with  herself — returned 
to  writing  on  her  slate — and  held  out  the  written 
words  once  more : 

"  Shivered  when  I  touched  her.  That  means 
I  have  been  walking  over  her  grave." 

Blanche  turned  from  the  sight  of  the  slate,  and 
from  the  sight  of  the  woman,  in  horror.  "  You 
frighten  me ! "  she  said.  "  You  will  frighten  her, 
if  she  sees  you.  I  don't  mean  to  offend  you ; 
but — leave  us,  please  leave  us. " 

Hester  Dethridge  accepted  her  dismissal,  as 
she  accepted  every  thing  else.  She  bowed  her 
head  in  sign  that  she  understood — looked  for  the 
last  time  at  Anne — dropped  a  stiff  courtesy  to 
her  young  mistress — and  left  the  room. 

An  hour  later  the  butler  had  paid  her,  and 
she  had  left  the  house. 

Blanche  breathed  more  freely  when  she  found 
herself  alone.  She  could  feel  the  relief  now  of 
seeing  Anne  revive. 

"Can  you  hear  me,  darling?"  she  whispered. 
"  Can  you  let  me  leave  you  for  a  moment?" 

Anne's  eyes  slowly  opened  and  looked  round 
her — in  that  torment  and  terror  of  reviving  life 
which  marks  the  awful  protest  of  humanity 
against  its  recall  to  existence  when  mortal  mercy 
has  dared  to  wake  it  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Blanche  rested  Anne's  head  against  the  near- 
est chair,  and  ran  to  the  table  upon  which  she 
had  placed  the  wine  on  entering  the  room. 

After  swallowing  the  first  few  drops  Anne  be- 
gan to  feel  the  effect  of  the  stimulant.  Blanche 
persisted  in  making  her  empty  the  glass,  and 
refrained  from  asking  or  answering  questions 
until  her  recovery  under  the  influence  of  the 
wine  was  complete. 

"You  have  overexerted  yourself  this  morn- 
ing, "  she  said,  as  soon  as  it  seemed  safe  to  speak. 
"Nobody  has  seen  you,  darling — nothing  has 
happened.  Do  you  feel  like  yourself  again  ?" 


Anne  made  an  attempt  to  rise  and  leave  the 
library ;  Blanche  placed  her  gently  in  the  chair, 
and  went  on : 

"There  is  not  the  least  need  to  stir.  We 
have  another  quarter  of  an  hour  to  ourselves 
before  any  body  is  at  all  likely  to  disturb  us. 
I  have  something  to  say,  Anne — a  little  proposal 
to  make.  Will  you  listen  to  me  ?" 

Anne  took  Blanche's  hand,  and  pressed  it 
gratefully  to  her  lips.  She  made  no  other  re- 
ply. Blanche  proceeded : 

"  I  won't  ask  any  questions,  my  dear — I  won't 
attempt  to  keep  you  here  against  your  will — I 
won't  even  remind  you  of  my  letter  yesterday. 
But  I  can't  let  you  go,  Anne,  without  having  my 
mind  made  easy  about  you  in  some  way.  You 
will  relieve  all  my  anxiety,  if  you  will  do  one 
thing — one  easy  thing,  for  my  sake." 

"  What  is  it,"  Blanche?" 

She  put  that  question  with  her  mind  far  away 
from  the  subject  before  her.  Blanche  was  too 
eager  in  pursuit  of  her  object  to  notice  the  ab- 
sent tone,  the  purely  mechanical  manner,  in 
which  Anne  had  spoken  to  her. 

"I  want  you  to  consult  my  uncle,"  she  an- 
swered. "  Sir  Patrick  is  interested  in  you ;  Sir 
Patrick*  proposed  to  me  this  very  day  to  go  and 
see  you  at  the  inn.  He  is  the  wisest,  the  kindest, 
the  dearest  old  man  living — and  you  can  trust 
him  as  you  could  trust  nobody  else.  Will  you 
take  my  uncle  into  your  confidence,  and  be 
guided  by  his  advice  ?" 

With  her  mind  still  far  away  from  the  subject, 
Anne  looked  out  absently  at  the  lawn,  and  made 
no  answer. 

"Come!"  said  Blanche.  "One  word  isn't 
much  to  say.  Is  it  Yes  or  No  ?" 

Still  looking  out  on  the  lawn — still  thinking 
of  something  else  —  Anne  yielded,  and  said 
"Yes." 

Blanche  was  enchanted.  "  How  well  I  must 
have  managed  it ! "  she  thought.  "This  is  what 
my  uncle  means,  when  my  uncle  talks  of  'put- 
ting it  strongly.'" 

She  bent  down  over  Anne,  and  gayly  patted 
her  on  the  shoulder. 

"That's  the  wisest  'Yes,'  darling,  you  ever 
said  in  your  life.  Wait  here — and  I'll  go  in  to 
luncheon,  or  they  will  be  sending  to  know  what 
has  become  of  me.  Sir  Patrick  has  kept  my 
place  for  me,  next  to  himself.  I  shall  contrive 
to  tell  him  what  I  want;  and  he  will  contrive 
(oh,  the  blessing  of  having  to  do  with  a  clever 
man ;  there  are  so  few  of  them !) — he  will  con- 
trive to  leave  the  table  before  the  rest,  without 
exciting  any  body's  suspicions.  Go  away  with 
him  at  once  to. the  summer-house  (we  have  been 
at  the  summer-house  all  the  morning;  nobody 
will  go  back  to  it  now),  and  I  will  follow  you  as 
soon  as  I  have  satisfied  Lady  Lundie  by  eating 
some  lunch.  Nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser  but 
our  three  selves.  In  five  minutes  or  less  you 
may  expect  Sir  Patrick.  Let  me  go!  We 
haven't  a  moment  to  lose!" 

Anne  held  her  back.  Anne's  attention  was 
concentrated  on  her  now. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Are  you  going  on  happily  with  Arnold, 
Blanche?" 

"  Arnold  is  nicer  than  ever,  my  dear." 

"  Is  the  day  fixed  for  your  marriage  ?" 

"  The  day  will  be  ages  hence.     Not  till  we  are 


100 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


back  in  town,  at  the  end  of  the  autumn.  Let 
me  go,  Anne!" 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Blanche." 

Blanche  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  release  her 
hand.  Anne  held  it  as  if  she  was  drowning,  as 
if  her  life  depended  on  not  letting  it  go. 

"Will  you  always  love  me,  Blanche,  as  you 
love  me  now  ?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  me !" 

"/said  Yes  just  now.     You  say  Yes  too." 

Blanche  said  it.  Anne's  eyes  fastened  on  her 
face,  with  one  long,  yearning  look,  and  then 
Anne's  hand  suddenly  dropped  hers. 

She  ran  out  of  the  room,  more  agitated,  more 
uneasy,  than  she  liked  to  confess  to  herself.  Nev- 
er had  she  felt  so  certain  of  the  urgent  necessity 
of  appealing  to  Sir  Patrick's  advice  as  she  felt  at 
that  moment. 

The  guests  were  still  safe  at  the  luncheon-table 
when  Blanche  entered  the  dining-room. 

Lady  Lundie  expressed  the  necessary  surprise, 
in  the  properly  graduated  tone  of  reproof,  at  her 
step-daughter's  want  of  punctuality.  Blanche 
made  her  apologies  with  the  most  exemplary  hu- 
mility. She  glided  into  her  chair  by  her  uncle's 
side,  and  took  the  first  thing  that  was  offered  to 
her.  Sir  Patrick  looked  at  his  niece,  and  found 
himself  in  the  company  of  a  model  young  En- 
glish Miss — and  marveled  inwardly  what  it  might 
mean. 

The  talk,  interrupted  for  the  moment  (topics, 
Politics  and  Sport — and  then,  when  a  change 
was  wanted,  Sport  and  Politics),  was  resumed 
again  all  round  the  table.  Under  cover  of  the 
conversation,  and  in  the  intervals  of  receiving 
the  attentions  of  the  gentlemen,  Blanche  whis- 
pered to  Sir  Patrick,  "  Don't  start,  uncle.  Anne 
is  in  the  library."  (Polite  Mr.  Smith  offered 
some  ham.  Gratefully  declined. )  ' '  Pray,  pray, 
pray  go  to  her ;  she  is  waiting  to  see  you — she  is 
in  dreadful  trouble."  (Gallant  Mr.  Jones  pro- 
posed fruit  tart  and  cream.  Accepted  with 
thanks.)  "  Take  her  to  the  summer-house :  I'll 
follow  you  when  I  get  the  chance.  And  manage 
it  at  once,  uncle,  if  you  love  me,  or  you  will  be 
too  late. " 

Before  Sir  Patrick  could  whisper  back  a  word 
in  reply,  Lady  Lundie,  cutting  a  cake  of  the  rich- 
est Scottish  composition,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  publicly  proclaimed  it  to  be  her  "own 
cake,"  and,  as  such,  offered  her  brother-in-law 
a  slice.  The  slice  exhibited  an  eruption  of  plums 
and  sweetmeats,  overlaid  by  a  perspiration  of 
butter.  It  has  been  said  that  Sir  Patrick  had 
passed  the  age  of  seventy — it  is,  therefore,  need- 
less to  add  that  he  politely  declined  to  commit 
an  unprovoked  outrage  on  his  own  stomach. 

"  MY  cake !"  persisted  Lady  Lundie,  elevating 
the  horrible  composition  on  a  fork.  "Won't 
that  tempt  you  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  saw  his  way  to  slipping  out  of  the 
room  under  cover  of  a  compliment  to  his  sister- 
in-law.  He  summoned  his  courtly  smile,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"A  fallible  mortal,"  he  said,  "is  met  by  a 
temptation  which  he  can  not  possibly  resist.  If 
he  is  a  wise  mortal,  also,  what  does  he  do  ?" 

"  He  eats  some  of  My  cake,"  said  the  prosaic 
Lady  Lundie. 

"  No !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  with  a  look  of  unut- 
terable devotion  directed  at  his  sister-in-law. 


"He  flies  temptation,  dear  lady — as  I  do  now." 
He  bowed,  and  escaped,  unsuspected,  from  the 
room. 

Lady  Lundie  cast  down  her  eyes,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  virtuous  indulgence  for  human  frailty, 
and  divided  Sir  Patrick's  compliment  modestly 
between  herself  and  her  cake. 

Well  aware  that  his  own  departure  from  the 
table  would  be  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by  the 
rising  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  Sir  Patrick  hur- 
ried to  the  library  as  fast  as  his  lame  foot  would 
let  him.  Now  that  he  was  alone,  his  manner  be- 
came anxious,  and  his  face  looked  grave.  He 
entered  the  room. 

Not  a  sign  of  Anne  Silvester  was  to  be  seen 
any  where.  The  library  was  a  perfect  solitude. 

"  Gone!"  said  Sir  Patrick.     "This  looks  bad." 

After  a  moment's  reflection  he  went  back  into 
the  hall  to  get  his  hat.  It  was  possible  that  she 
might  have  been  afraid  of  discovery  if  she  staid 
in  the  library,  and  that  she  might  have  gone  on 
to  the  summer-house  by  herself. 

If  she  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  summer- 
house,  the  quieting  of  Blanche's  mind  and  the 
clearing  up  of  her  uncle's  suspicions  alike  depend- 
ed on  discovering  the  place  in  which  Miss  Silves- 
ter had  taken  refuge.  In  this  case  time  would 
be  of  importance,  and  the  capacity  of  making  the 
most  of  it  would  be  a  precious  capacity  at  start- 
ing. Arriving  rapidly  at  these  conclusions,  Sir 
Patrick  rang  the  bell  in  the  hall  which  commu- 
nicated with  the  servants'  offices,  and  summoned 
his  own  valet — a  person  of  tried  discretion  and 
fidelity,  nearly  as  old  as  himself. 

"  Get  your  hat,  Duncan,"  he  said,  when  the 
valet  appeared,  "and  come  out  with  me." 

Master  and  servant  set  forth  together  silently, 
on  their  way  through  the  grounds.  Arrived 
within  sight  of  the  summer-house,  Sir  Patrick 
ordered  Duncan  to  wait,  and  went  on  by  him- 
self. 

There  was  not  the  least  need  for  the  precau- 
tion that  he  had  taken.  The  summer-house  was 
as  empty  as  the  library.  He  stepped  out  again 
and  looked  about  him.  Not  a  living  creature 
was  visible.  Sir  Patrick  summoned  his  servant 
to  join  him. 

"Go  back  to  the  stables,  Duncan,"  he  said, 
"and  say  that  Miss  Lundie  lends  me  her  pony- 
carriage  to-day.  Let  it  be  got  ready  at  once 
and  kept  in  the  stable-yard.  I  want  to  attract 
as  little  notice  as  possible.  You  are  to  go  with 
me,  and  nobody  else.  Provide  yourself  with  a 
railway  time-table.  Have  you  got  any  money  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"Did  you  happen  to  see  the  governess  (Miss 
Silvester)  on  the  day  when  we  came  here — the 
day  of  the  lawn-party  ?" 

'"I  did,  Sir  Patrick." 

' '  Should  you  know  her  again  ?" 

"  I  thought  her  a  very  distinguished-looking 
person,  Sir  Patrick.  I  should  certainly  know 
her  again." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  think  she  noticed 
you?" 

"  She  never  even  looked  at  me,  Sir  Patrick." 

' '  Very  good.  Put  a  change  of  linen  into  your 
bag,  Duncan — I  may  possibly  want  you  to  take 
a  journey  by  railway.  Wait  for  me  in  the  stable- 
yard.  This  is  a  matter  in  which  every  thing  is 
trusted  to  my  discretion,  and  to  yours." 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


101 


'SHE   CAME   OUT   AGAIN   XO   MEET   HIM,  WITH   A   LOOK   OF   BLANK   DESPAIR." 


"Thank  yon,  Sir  Patrick." 

With  that  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment 
which  had  been  just  paid  to  him,  Duncan  grave- 
ly went  his  way  to  the  stables ;  and  Duncan's 
master  returned  to  the  summer-house,  to  wait 
there  until  he  was  joined  by  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  showed  signs  of  failing  patience 
during  the  interval  of  expectation  through  which 
he  was  now  condemned  to  pass.  He  applied 
perpetually  to  the  snuff-box  in  the  knob  of  his 
cane.  He  fidgeted  incessantly  in  and  out  of  the 
summer-house.  Anne's  disappearance  had  placed 
a  serious  obstacle  in  the  way  of  further  discov- 
ery ;  and  there  was  no  attacking  that  obstacle, 
until  precious  time  had  been  wasted  in  waiting  to 
see  Blanche. 

At  last  she  appeared  in  view,  from  the  steps 
of  the  summer-house ;  breathless  and  eager,  hast- 
ening to  the  place  of  meeting  as  fast  as  her  feet 
would  take  her  to  it. 

Sir  Patrick  considerately  advanced,  to  spare 
her  the  shock  of  making  the  inevitable  discovery. 
"Blanche,"  he  said.  "Try  to  prepare  your- 
self, my  dear,  for  a  disappointment.  I  am 
alone. " 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  have  let  her  go  ?" 

' :  My  poor  child !  I  have  never  seen  her  at  all. " 

Blanche  pushed  by  him,  and  ran  into  the  sum- 
mer-house. Sir  Patrick  followed  her.  She  came 
out  again  to  meet  him,  with  a  look  of  blank  de- 
spair. "Oh,  uncle!  I  did  so  truly  pity  her! 
And  see  how  little  pity  she  has  for  me  !" 

Sir  Patrick  put  his  arm  round  his  niece,  and 
softly  patted  the  fair  young  head  that  dropped  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  let  us  judge  her  harshly,  my  dear : 
we  don't  know  what  serious  necessity  may  not 


plead  her  excuse.  It  is  plain  that  she  can  trust 
nobody — and  that  she  only  consented  to  see  me 
to  get  you  out  of  the  room  and  spare  you  the 
pain  of  parting.  Compose  yourself.  Blanche.  I 
don't  despair  of  discovering  where  she  has  gone, 
if  you  will  help  me. " 

Blanche  lifted  her  head,  and  dried  her  tears 
bravely. 

"My  father  himself  wasn't  kinder  to  me  than 
you  are,"  she  said.  "Only  tell  me,  uncle,  what 
I  can  do!" 

"  I  want  to  hear  exactly  what  happened  in  the 
library,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "Forget  nothing, 
my  dear  child,  no  matter  how  trifling  it  may  be. 
Trifles  are  precious  to  us,  and  minutes  are  pre- 
cious to  us,  now. " 

Blanche  followed  her  instructions  to  the  letter, 
her  uncle  listening  with  the  closest  attention. 
When  she  had  completed  her  narrative,  Sir  Pat- 
rick suggested  leaving  the  summer-house.  '"I 
have  ordered  your  chaise,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  can 
tell  you  what  I  propose  doing  on  our  way  to  the 
stable-yard." 

"  Let  me  drive  you,  uncle !" 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear,  for  saying  No  to  that. 
Your  step-mother's  suspicions  are  very  easily  ex- 
cited— and  you  had  better  not  be  seen  with  me 
if  my  inquiries  take  me  to  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. 
I  promise,  if  you  will  remain  here,  to  tell  you 
every  thing  when  I  come  back.  Join  the  oth- 
ers in  any  plan  they  have  for  the  afternoon — and 
you  will  prevent  my  absence  from  exciting  any 
thing  more  than  a  passing  remark.  You  will  do 
as  I  tell  you  ?  That's  a  good  girl !  Now  you 
shall  hear  how  I  propose  to  search  for  this  poor 
lady,  and  how  your  little  story  has  helped  me. " 
.  He  paused,  considering  with  himself  whether 


102 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


he  should  begin  by  telling  Blanche  of  his  con- 
sultation with  Geoffrey.  Once  more,  he  decided 
that  question  in  the  negative.  Better  to  still  de- 
fer taking  her  into  his  confidence  until  he  had 
performed  the  errand  of  investigation  on  which 
he  was  now  setting  forth. 

"What  you  have  told  me,  Blanche,  divides 
itself,  in  my  mind,  into  two  heads,"  began  Sir 
Patrick.  "There  is  what  happened  in  the  li- 
brary before  your  own  eyes ;  and  there  is  what 
Miss  Silvester  told  you  had  happened  at  the  inn. 
As  to  the  event  in  the  library  (in  the  first  place), 
it  is  too  late  now  to  inquire  whether  that  faint- 
ing-fit was  the  result,  as  you  say,  of  mere  ex- 
haustion— or  whether  it  was  the  result  of  some- 
thing that  occurred  while  you  were  out  of  the 
room." 

"  What  could  have  happened  while  I  was  out 
of  the  room?" 

"  I  know  no  more  than  you  do,  my  dear.  It 
is  simply  one  of  the  possibilities  in  the  case ,  and, 
as  such,  I  notice  it.  To  get  on  to  what  practi- 
cally concerns  us ;  if  Miss  Silvester  is  in  delicate 
health  it  is  impossible  that  she  could  get,  unas- 
sisted, to  any  great  distance  from  Windygates. 
She  may  have  taken  refuge  in  one  of  the  cottages 
in  our  immediate  neighborhood.  Or  she  may 
have  met  with  some  passing  vehicle  from  one  of 
the  farms  on  its  way  to  the  station,  and  may 
have  asked  the  person  driving  to  give  her  a  seat 
in  it.  Or  she  may  have  walked  as  far  as  she 
can,  and  may  have  stopped  to  rest  in  some  shel- 
tered place,  among  the  lanes  to  the  south  of  this 
house." 

"I'll  inquire  at  the  cottages,  uncle,  while  you 
are  gone. " 

"  My  dear  child,  there  must  be  a  dozen  cot- 
tages, at  least,  within  a  circle  of  one  mile  from 
Windygates !  Your  inquiries  would  probably 
occupy  you  for  the  whole  afternoon.  I  won't 
ask  what  Lady  Lundie  would  think  of  your  being 
away  all  that  time  by  yourself.  I  will  only  re- 
mind you  of  two  things.  You  would  be  making 
a  public  matter  of  an  investigation  which  it  is  es- 
sential to  pursue  as  privately  as  possible ;  and, 
even  if  you  happened  to  hit  on  the  right  cottage, 
your  inquiries  would  be  completely  baffled,  and 
you  would  discover  nothing. " 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  know  the  Scottish  peasant  better  than  you 
do,  Blanche.  In  his  intelligence  and  his  sense 
of  self-respect  he  is  a  very  different  being*  from 
the  English  peasant.  He  would  receive  you  civ- 
illy, because  you  are  a  young  lady ;  but  he  would 
let  you  see,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  considered 
you  had  taken  advantage  of  the  difference  be- 
tween your  position  and  his  position  to  commit 
an  intrusion.  And  if  Miss  Silvester  had  appeal- 
ed, in  confidence,  to  his  hospitality,  and  if  he 
had  granted  it,  no  power  on  earth  would  induce 
him  to  tell  any  person  living  that  she  was  under 
his  roof — without  her  express  permission." 

"But,  uncle,  if  it's  of  no  use  making  inquiries 
of  any  body,  how  are  we  to  find  her?" 

"  I  don't  say  that  nobody  will  answer  our  in- 
quiries, my  dear — I  only  say  the  peasantry  won't 
answer  them,  if  your  friend  has  trusted  herself 
to  their  protection.  The  way  to  find  her  is  to 
look  on,  beyond  what  Miss  Silvester  may  be  do- 
ing at  the  present  moment,  to  what  Miss  Silves- 
ter contemplates  doing — let  us  say,  before  the 
day  is  out.  We  may  assume,  I  think  (after  what  • 


has  happened),  that,  as  soon  as  she  can  leave 
this  neighbor  hood,  she  assuredly  will  leave  it. 
Do  you  agree,  so  far  ?" 

"  Yes!  yes  !     Go  on." 

"  Very  well.  She  is  a  woman,  and  she  is  (to 
say  the  least  of  it)  not  strong.  She  can  only  leave 
this  neighborhood  either  by  hiring  a  vehicle  or 
by  traveling  on  the  railway.  I  propose  going 
first  to  the  station.  At  the  rate  at  which  your 
pony  gets  over  the  ground,  there  is  a  fair  chance, 
in  spite  of  the  time  we  have  lost,  of  my  being 
there  as  soon  as  she  is — assuming  that  she  leaves 
by  the  first  train,  up  or  down,  that  passes." 

"  There  is  a  train  in  half  an  hour,  uncle.  She 
can  never  get  there  in  time  for  that." 

"She  may  be  less  exhausted  than  we  think; 
or  she  may  get  a  lift ;  or  she  may  not  be  alone. 
How  do  we  know  but  somebody  may  have  been 
waiting  in  the  lane — her  husband,  if  there  is  such 
a  person  —  to  help  her  ?  No  !  I  shall  assume 
she  is  now  on  her  way  to  the  station ;  and  I  shall 
get  there  as  fast  as  possible — " 

"And  stop  her,  if  you  find  her  there?" 

"  What  I  do,  Blanche,  must  be  left  to  my  dis- 
cretion. If  I  find  her  there,  I  must  act  for  the 
best.  If  I  don't  find  her  there,  I  shall  leave  Dun- 
can (who  goes  with  me)  on  the  watch  for  the  re- 
maining trains,  until  the  last  to-night.  He  knows 
Miss  Silvester  by  sight,  and  he  is  sure  that  she 
has  never  noticed  him.  Whether  she  goes  north 
or  south,  early  or  late,  Duncan  will  have  my  or- 
ders to  follow  her.  He  is  thoroughly  to  be  re- 
lied on.  If  she  takes  the  railway,  I  answer  for 
it  we  shall  know  where  she  goes." 

"How  clever  of  you  to  think  of  Duncan!" 

"Not  in  the  least,  my  dear.  Duncan  is  my 
factotum ;  and  the  course  I  am  taking  is  the  ob- 
vious course  which  would  have  occurred  to  any 
body.  Let  us  get  to  the  really  difficult  part  of  it 
now.  Suppose  she  hires  a  carriage  ?" 

"  There  are  none  to  be  had,  except  at  the  sta- 
tion." 

"There  are  farmers  about  here;  and  farmers 
have  light  carts,  or  chaises,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  It  is  in  the  last  degree  unlikely  that  they 
would  consent  to  let  her  have  them.  Still,  wo- 
men break  through  difficulties  which  stop  men. 
And  this  is  a  clever  woman,  Blanche — a  woman, 
you  may  depend  on  it,  who  is  bent  on  preventing 
you  from  tracing  her.  I  confess  I  wish  we  had 
somebody  we  could  trust  lounging  about  where 
those  two  roads  branch  off  from  the  road  that 
leads  to  the  railway.  I  must  go  in  another  di- 
rection ;  /can't  do  it." 

"Arnold  can  do  it!" 

Sir  Patrick  looked  a  little  doubtful.  "Ar- 
nold is  an  excellent  fellow,"  he  said.  "  But  can 
we  trust  to  his  discretion  ?" 

"He  is,  next  to  you,  the  most  perfectly  dis- 
creet person  I  know,"  rejoined  Blanche,  in  a  very 
positive  manner;  "and,  what  is  more,  I  have 
told  him  every  thing  about  Anne,  except  what 
has  happened  to-day.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  tell 
him  that,  when  I  feel  lonely  and  miserable,  after 
you  have  gone.  There  is  something  in  Arnold — 
I  don't  know  what  it  is — that  comforts  me.  Be- 
sides, do  you  think  he  would  betray  a  secret  that 
I  gave  him  to  keep  ?  You  don't  know  how  de- 
voted he  is  to  me!" 

"My  dear  Blanche,  I  am  not  the  cherished 
object  of  his  devotion  ;  of  course  I  don't  know ! 
You  are  the  only  authority  on  that  point.  I 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


103 


stand  corrected.  Let  us  have  Arnold,  by  all 
means.  Caution  him  to  be  careful ;  and  send 
him  out  by  himself,  where  the  roads  meet.  We 
have  now  only  one  other  place  left  in  which  there 
is  a  chance  of  finding  a  trace  of  her.  I  under- 
take to  make  the  necessary  investigation  at  the 
Craig Fernie  inn." 

"The  Craig  Fernie  inn?  Uncle!  you  have 
forgotten  what  I  told  you." 

"  Wait  a  little,  my  dear.  Miss  Silvester  her- 
self has  left  the  inn,  I  grant  you.  But  (if  we 
should  unhappily  fail  in  finding  her  by  any  other 
means)  Miss  Silvester  has  left  a  trace  to  guide  us 
at  Craig  Fernie.  That  trace  must  be  picked  up 
at  once,  in  case  of  accidents.  You  don't  seem 
to  follow  me  ?  I  am  getting  over  the  ground  as 
fast  as  the  pony  gets  over  it.  I  have  arrived  at 
the  second  of  those  two  heads  into  which  your 
story  divides  itself  in  my  mind.  What  did  Miss 
Silvester  tell  you  had  happened  at  the  inn  ?" 

"She  lost  a  letter  at  the  inn." 

"  Exactly.  She  lost  a  letter  at  the  inn ;  that 
is  one  event.  And  Bishopriggs,  the  waiter,  has 
quarreled  with  Mrs.  Inchbare,  and  has  left  his 
situation ;  that  is  another  event.  As  to  the  let- 
ter first.  It  is  either  really  lost,  or  it  has  been 
stolen.  In  either  case,  if  we  can  lay  our  hands 
on  it,  there  is  at  least  a  chance  of  its  helping 
us  to  discover  something.  As  to  Bishopriggs, 
next — " 

"  You're  not  going  to  talk  about  the  waiter, 
sure'y  ?" 

"I  am!  Bishopriggs  possesses  two  import- 
ant merits.  '  lie  is  a  link  in  my  chain  of  reason- 
ing; and  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  A  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"  We  live  in  days,  my  dear,  when  one  work- 
man talks  of  another  workman  as  '  that  gentle- 
man.' I  march  with  the  age,  and  feel  bound  to 
mention  my  clerk  as  my  friend.  A  few  years 
since  Bishopriggs  was  employed  in  the  clerks' 
room  at  my  chambers.  He  ist  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  and  most  unscrupulous  old  vagabonds 
in  Scotland ;  perfectly  honest  as  to  all  average 
matters  involving  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence ; 
perfectly  unprincipled  in  the  pursuit  of  his  own 
interests,  where  the  violation  of  a  trust  lies  on 
the  boundary -line  which  marks  the  limit  of  the 
law.  I  made  two  unpleasant  discoveries  when  I 
had  him  in  my  employment.  I  found  that  he 
had  contrived  to  supply  himself  with  a  duplicate 
of  my  seal ;  and  I  had  the  strongest  reason  to 
suspect  him  of  tampering  with  some  papers  be- 
longing to  two  of  my  clients.  He  had  done  no 
actual  mischief,  so  far ;  and  I  had  no  time  to 
waste  in  making  out  the  necessary  case  against 
him.  He  was  dismissed  from  my  service,  as  a 
man  who  was  not  to  be  trusted  to  respect  any 
letters  or  papers  that  happened  to  pass  through 
his  hands." 

"I  see,  uncle!     I  see!" 

"  Plain  enough  now — isn't  it?  If  that  miss- 
ing letter  of  Miss  Silvester's  is  a  letter  of  no  im- 
portance, I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  is  mere- 
ly lost,  and  may  be  found  again.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is  any  thing  in  it  that  could  promise 
the  most  remote  advantage  to  any  person  in  pos- 
session of  it,  then,  iti  the  execrable  slang  of  the 
day,  I  will  lay  any  odds,  Blanche,  that  Bishop- 
riggs has  got  the  letter !" 

"And  he  has  left  the  inn!  How  unfortu- 
nate!" 


"Unfortunate  as  causing  delay  —  nothing 
worse  than  that.  Unless  I  am  very  much  mis- 
taken, Bishopriggs  will  come  back  to  the  inn. 
The  old  rascal  (there  is  no  denying  it)  is  a  most 
amusing  person.  He  left  a  terrible  blank  when 
he  left  my  clerks'  room.  Old  customers  at  Craig 
Fernie  (especially  the  English),  in  missing  Bish- 
opriggs, will,  you  may  rely  on  it,  miss  one  of  the 
attractions  of  the  inn.  Mrs.  Inchbare  is  not  a 
woman  to  let  her  dignity  stand  in  the  way  of  her 
business.  She  and  Bishopriggs  will  come  to- 
gether again,  sooner  or  later,  and  make  it  up. 
When  I  have  put  certain  questions  to  her,  which 
may  possibly  lead  to  very  important  results,  I 
shall  leave  a  letter  for  Bishopriggs  in  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare's  hands.  The  letter  will  tell  him  I  have 
something  for  him  to  do,  and  will  contain  an 
address  at  which  he  can  write  to  me.  I  shall 
hear  of  him,  Blanche ;  and,  if  the  letter  is  in  his 
possession,  I  shall  get  it." 

"  Won't  he  be  afraid — if  he  has  stolen  the  let- 
ter— to  tell  you  he  has  got  it  ?" 

"  Very  well  put,  my  child.  He  might  hesitate 
with  other  people.  But  I  have  my  own  way  of 
dealing  with  him ;  and  I  know  how  to  make  him 
tell  Me. — Enough  of  Bishopriggs  till  his  time 
comes.  There  is  one  other  point,  in  regard  to 
Miss  Silvester.  I  may  have  to  describe  her. 
How  was  she  dressed  when  she  came  here? 
Remember,  I  am  a  man — and  (if  an  English- 
woman's dress  can  be  described  in  an  English- 
woman's language)  tell  me,  in  English,  what  she 
had  on." 

"She  wore  a  straw  hat,  with  corn-flowers  in 
it,  and  a  white  veil.  Corn-flowers  at  one  side, 
uncle,  which  is  less  common  than  corn-flowers  in 
front.  And  she  had  on  a  light  gray  shawl.  And 
a  Pique — * 

' '  There  you  go  with  your  French !  Not  a 
word  more !  A  straw  hat,  with  a  white  veil, 
and  with  corn-flowers  at  one  side  of  the  hat. 
And  a  light  gray  shawl.  That's  as  much  as 
the  ordinary  male  mind  can  take  in ;  and  that 
will  do.  I  have  got  my  instructions,  and  saved 
precious  time.  So  far — so  good.  Here  we  are 
at  the  end  of  our  conference — in  other  words, 
at  the  gate  of  the  stable-yard.  You  understand 
what  you  have  to  do  while  I  am  away  ?" 

"I  have  to  send  Arnold  to  the  cross-roads. 
And  I  have  to  behave  (if  I  can)  as  if  nothing 
had  happened." 

"Good  child!  Well  put  again!  You  have 
got  what  I  call  grasp  of  mind,  Blanche.  An  in- 
valuable faculty!  You  will  govern  the  future 
domestic  kingdom.  Arnold  will  be  nothing 
but  a  constitutional  husband.  Those  are  the 
only  husbands  who  are  thoroughly  happy.  You 
shall  hear  every  thing,  my  love,  when  I  come 
back.  Got  your  bag,  Duncan  ?  Good.  And 
the  time-table  ?  Good.  You  take  the  reins — I 
won't  drive.  I  want  to  think.  Driving  is  in- 
compatible with  intellectual  exertion.  A  man 
puts  his  mind  into  his  horse,  and  sinks  to  the 
level  of  that  useful  animal — as  a  necessary  con- 
dition of  getting  to  his  destination  without  being 
upset.  God  bless  you,  Blanche!  To  the  sta- 
tion, Duncan!  to  the  station!" 


104 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-THIRD. 

TRACED. 

THE  chaise  rattled  out  through  the  gates. 
The  dogs  barked  furiously.  Sir  Patrick  looked 
round,  and  waved  his  hand  as  he  turned  the 
corner  of  the  road.  Blanche  was  left  alone  in 
the  yard. 

She  lingered  a  little,  absently  patting  the  dogs. 
They  had  especial  claims  on"  her  sympathy  at 
that  moment ;  they,  too,  evidently  thought  it 
hard  to  be  left  behind  at  the  house.  After  a 
while  she  roused  herself.  Sir  Patrick  had  left 
the  responsibility  of  superintending  the  cross- 
roads on  her  shoulders.  There  was  something 
to  be  done  yet  before  the  arrangements  for  tra- 
cing Anne  were  complete.  Blanche  left  the  yard 
to  do  it. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  house  she  met  Ar- 
nold, dispatched  by  Lady  Lundie  in  search  of 
her. 

The  plan  of  occupation  for  the  afternoon  had 
been  settled  during  Blanche's  absence.  Some 
demon  had  whispered  to  Lady  Lundie  to  culti- 
vate a  taste  for  feudal  antiquities,  and  to  insist 
on  spreading  that  taste  among  her  guests.  She 
had  proposed  an  excursion  to  an  old  baronial 
castle  among  the  hills — far  to  the  westward  (for- 
tunately for  Sir  Patrick's  chance  of  escaping  dis- 
covery) of  the  hills  at  Craig  Fernie.  Some  of 
the  guests  were  to  ride,  and  some  to  accompany 
their  hostess  in  the  open  carriage.  Looking 
right  and  left  for  proselytes,  Lady  Lundie  had 
necessarily  remarked  the  disappearance  of  cer- 
tain members  of  her  circle.  Mr.  Delamayn  had 
vanished,  nobody  knew  where.  Sir  Patrick  and 
Blanche  had  followed  his  example.  Her  lady- 
ship had  observed,  upon  this,  with  some  asper-. 
ity,  that  if  they  were  all  to  treat  each  other  in 
that  unceremonious  manner,  the  sooner  Windy- 
gates  was  turned  into  a  Penitentiary,  on  the  si- 
lent system,  the  fitter  the  house  would  be. for  the 
people  who  inhabited  it.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, Arnold  suggested  that  Blanche  would 
do  well  to  make  her  excuses  as  soon  as  possible 
at  head-quarters,  and  accept  the  seat  in  the  car- 
riage which  her  step-mother  wished  her  to  take. 
';  We  are  in  for  the  feudal  antiquities,  Blanche ; 
and  we  must  help  each  other  through  as  well  as 
we  can.  If  you  will  go  in  the  carriage,  I'll  go 
too." 

Blanche  shook  her  head. 

"  There  are  serious  reasons  for  my  keeping  up 
appearances,"  she  said.  "I  shall  go  in  the  car- 
riage. You  mustn't  go  at  all." 

Arnold  naturally  looked  a  little  surprised,  and 
asked  to  be  favored  with  an  explanation. 

Blanche  took  his  arm  and  hugged  it  close. 
Now  that  Anne  was  lost,  Arnold  was  more  pre- 
cious to  her  than  ever.  She  literally  hungered 
to  hear  at  that  moment,  from  his  own  lips,  how 
fond  he  was  of  her.  It  mattered  nothing  that 
she  was  already  perfectly  satisfied  on  this  point. 
It  was  so  nice  (after  he  had  said  it  five  hundred 
times  already)  to  make  him  say  it  once  more ! 

"  Suppose  I  had  no  explanation  to  give?"  she 
said.  "  Would  you  stay  behind  by  yourself  to 
please  me  f" 

"  I  would  do  any  thing  to  please  you !" 

"Do  you  really  love  me  as  much  as  that?" 

They  were  still  in  the  yard ;  and  the  only  wit- 
nesses present  were  the  dogs.  Arnold  answered 


in  the  language  without  words — which  is  never- 
theless the  most  expressive  language  in  use,  be- 
tween men  and  women,  all  over  the  world. 

"This  is  not  doing  my  duty, "said  Blanche, 
penitently.  "  But,  oh  Arnold,  I  am  so  anxious 
and  so  miserable !  And  it  is  such  a  consolation 
to  know  that  you  won't  turn  your  back  on  me 
too!" 

With  that  preface  she  told  him  what  had  hap- 
pened in  the  library.  Even  Blanche's  estimate 
of  her  lover's  capacity  for  sympathizing  with 
her  was  more  than  realized  by  the  effect  which 
her  narrative  produced  on  Arnold.  He  was  not 
merely  surprised  and  sorry  for  her.  His  face 
showed  plainly  that  he  felt  genuine  concern  and 
distress.  He  had  never  stood  higher  in  Blanche's 
opinion  than  he  stood  at  that  moment. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  he  asked.  "How 
does  Sir  Patrick  propose  to  find  her  ?" 

Blanche  repeated  Sir  Patrick's  instructions  re- 
lating to  the  cross-roads,  and  also  to  the  seri- 
ous necessity  of  pursuing  the  investigation  in  the 
strictest  privacy.  Arnold  (relieved  from  all  fear 
of  being  sent  back  to  Craig  Fernie)  undertook 
to  do  every  thing  that  was  asked  of  him,  and 
promised  to  keep  the  secret  from  every  body. 

They  went  back  to  the^iouse,  and  met  with 
an  icy  welcome  from  Lady  Lundie.  Her  lady- 
ship repeated  her  remark  on  the  subject  of  turn- 
ing Windygates  into  a  Penitentiary  for  Blanche's 
benefit.  She  received  Arnold's  petition  to  be 
excused  from  going  to  see  the  castle  with  the 
barest  civility.  "Oh,  take  your  walk  by  all 
means !  You  may  meet  your  friend,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn— who  appears  to  have  such  a  passion  for 
wafking  that  he  can't  even  wait  till  luncheon  is 
over.  As  for  Sir  Patrick —  Oh!  Sir  Patrick 
has  borrowed  the  pony-carriage?  and  gone  out 
driving  by  himself? — I'm  sure  I  never  meant  to 
offend  my  brother-in-law  when  I  offered  him  a 
slice  of  my  poor  little  cake.  Don't  let  me  of- 
fend any  body  else.  Dispose  of  your  afternoon, 
Blanche,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  me. 
Nobody  seems  inclined  to  visit  the  ruins — the 
most  interesting  relic  of  feudal  times  in  Perth- 
shire, Mr.  Brinkworth.  It  doesn't  matter — oh, 
dear  me,  it  doesn't  matter!  I  can't  force  my 
guests  to  feel  an  intelligent  curiosity  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Scottish  Antiquities.  No !  no !  my  dear 
Blanche ! — it  won't  be  the  first  time,  or  the  last, 
that  I  have  driven  out  alone.  I  don't  at  all  ob- 
ject to  being  alone.  '  My  mind  to  me  a  king- 
dom is, 'as  the  poet  says."  So  Lady  Lundie's 
outraged  self-importance  asserted  its  violated 
claims  on  human  respect,  until  her  distinguished 
medical  guest  came  to  the  rescue  and  smoothed 
his  hostess's  ruffled  plumes.  The  surgeon  (he 
privately  detested  ruins)  begged  to  go.  Blanche 
begged  to  go.  Smith  and  Jones  (profoundly  in- 
terested in  feudal  antiquities)  said  they  would 
sit  behind,  in  the  "rumble" — rather  than  miss 
this  unexpected  treat.  One,  Two,  and  Three 
caught  the  infection,  and  volunteered  to  be  the 
escort  on  horseback.  Lady  Lundie's  celebrated 
"smile"  (warranted  to  remain  unaltered  on  her 
face  for  hours  together)  made  its  appearance 
once  more.  She  issued  her  orders  with  the  most 
charming  amiability.  "We'll  take  the  guide- 
book," said  her  ladyship,  with  the  eye  to  mean 
economy,  which  is  only  to  be  met  with  in  very 
rich  people,  "and  save  a  shilling  to  the  man  who 
shows  the  ruins."  With  that  she  went  up  stairs 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


105 


ARNOLD    SAT   DOWN   ON   THE   SOFT   HEATHER,  AND   LIT  A    CIGAB. 


to  array  herself  for  the  drive ;  and  looked  in  the 
glass ;  and  saw  a  perfectly  virtuous,  fascinating, 
and  accomplished  woman,  facing  her  irresistibly 
in  a  new  French  honnet ! 

At  a  private  signal  from  Blanche,  Arnold 
slipped  out  and  repaired  to  his  post,  where  the 
roads  crossed  the  road  that  led  to  the  railway. 

There  was  a  space  of  open  heath  on  one  side 
of  him,  and  the  stone-wall  and  gates  of  a  farm- 
house inclosure  on  the  other.  Arnold  sat  down 
on  the  soft  heather — and  lit  a  cigar — and  tried 
to  see  his  way  through  the  double  mystery  of 
Anne's  appearance  and  Anne's  flight. 

He  had  interpreted  his  friend's  absence  ex- 
actly as  his  friend  had  anticipated :  he  could 
only  assume  that  Geoffrey  had  gone  to  keep  a 
private  appointment  with  Anne.  Miss  Silvester's 
appearance  at  Windygates  alone,  and  Miss  Sil- 
vester's anxiety  to  hear  the  names  of  the  gentle- 
men who  were  staying  in  the  house,  seemed, 
under  these  circumstances,  to  point  to  the  plain 
conclusion  that  the  two  had,  in  some  way,  un- 
fortunately missed  each  other.  But  what  could 
be  the  motive  of  her  flight?  Whether  she 
knew  of  some  other  place  in  which  she  might 
meet  Geoffrey?  or  whether  she  had  gone  back 
to  the  inn?  or  whether  she  had  acted  under 
some  sudden  impulse  of  despair  ? — were  ques- 
tions which  Arnold  wa.s  necessarily  quite  incom- 
petent to  solve.  There  was  no  choice  but  to 
wait  until  an  opportunity  offered  of  reporting 
what  had  happened  to  Geoffrey  himself. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  the  so.und  of 
some  approaching  vehicle — the  first  sound  of  the 
sort  that  he  had  heard — attracted  Arnold's  at- 
tention. He  started  up,  and  saw  the  pony-chaise 
approaching  him  along  the  road  from  the  station. 
G 


Sir  Patrick,  this  time,  was  compelled  to  drive 
himself — Duncan  was  not  with  him.  On  dis- 
covering Arnold,  he  stopped  the  pony. 

"So!  so!"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "You 
have  heard  all  about  it,  I  see  ?  You  understand 
that  this  is  to  be  a  secret  from  every  body,  till 
further  notice?  Very  good.  Has  any  thing 
happened  since  you  have  been  here  ?" 

' '  Nothing.  Have  you  made  any  discoveries, 
Sir  Patrick?" 

"  None.  I  got  to  the  station  before  the  train. 
No  signs  of  Miss  Silvester  any  where.  I  have 
left  Duncan  on  the  watch — with  orders  not  to 
stir  till  the  last  train  has  passed  to-night." 

"  I  don't  think  she  will  turn  up  at  the  station," 
said  Arnold.  "I  fancy  she  has  gone  back  to 
Craig  Fernie." 

"  Quite  possible.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to 
Craig  Fernie,  to  make  inquiries  about  her.  I 
•don't  know  how  long  I  may  be  detained,  or  what 
it  may  lead  to.  If  you  see  Blanche  before  I  do, 
tell  her  I  have  instructed  the  station-master  to 
let  me  know  (if  Miss  Silvester  does  take  the  rail- 
way) what  place  she  books  for.  Thanks  to  that 
arrangement,  we  sha'n't  have  to  wait  for  news  till 
Duncan  can  telegraph  that  he  has'' seen  her  to 
her  journey's  end.  In  the  mean  time,  you  un- 
derstand what  you  are  wanted  to  do  here  ?" 

' '  Blanche  has  explained  every  thing  to  me. " 

"Stick  to  your  post,  and  make  good  use  of 
your  eyes.  You  were  accustomed  to  that,  you 
know,  when  you  were  at  sea.  It's  no  great  hard- 
ship to  pass  a  few  hours  in  this  delicious  summer 
air.  I  see  you  have  contracted  the  vile  modern 
habit  of  smoking — that  will  be  occupation  enough 
to  amuse  you,  no  doubt!  Keep  the  roads  in 
view ;  and,  if  she  does  come  your  way,  don't  at- 


106 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


tempt  to  stop  her — you  can't  do  that.  Speak  to 
her  (quite  innocently,  mind !),  by  way  of  getting 
time  enough  to  notice  the  face  of  the  man  who 
is  driving  her,  and  the  name  (if  there  is  one)  on 
his  cart.  Do  that,  and  you  will  do  enough. 
Pah!  how  that  cigar  poisons  the  air!  What 
will  have  become  of  your  stomach  when  you  get 
to  my  age  ?" 

"  I  sha'n't  complain,  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  can  eat 
as  good  a  dinner  as  you  do." 

"  That  reminds  me !  I  met  somebody  I  knew 
at  the  station.  Hester  Dethridge  has  left  her 
place,  and  gone  to  London  by  the  train.  We 
may  feed  at  Windygates — we  have  done  with 
dining  now.  It  has  been  a  final  quarrel  this 
time  between  the  mistress  and  the  cook.  I 
have  given  Hester  my  address  in  London,  and 
told  her  to  let  me  know  before  she  decides  on 
another  place.  A  Ifoman  who  cant  talk,  and 
a  woman  who  can  cook,  is  simply  a  woman  who 
*has  arrived  at  absolute  perfection.  Such  a  treas- 
ure shall  not  go  out  of  the  family,  if  I  can  help 
it.  Did  you  notice  the  Bechamel  sauce  at  lunch  ? 
Pooh!  a  young  man  who  smokes  cigars  doesn't 
know  the  difference  between  Bechamel  sauce 
and  melted  butter.  Good  afternoon !  good  aft- 
ernoon !" 

He  slackened  the  reins,  and  away  he  went  to 
Craig  Fernie.  Counting  by  years,  the  pony 
was  twenty,  and  the  pony's  driver  was  seventy. 
Counting  by  vivacity  and  spirit,  two  of  the  most 
youthful  characters  in  Scotland  had  got  togeth- 
er that  afternoon  in  the  same  chaise. 

An  hour  more  wore  itself  slowly  out ;  and 
nothing  had  passed  Arnold  on  the  cross-roads 
but  a  few  stray  foot-passengers,  a  heavy  wagon, 
and  a  gig  with  an  old  woman  in  it.  He  rose 
again  from  the  heather,  weary  of  inaction,  and 
resolved  to  walk  backward  and  forward,  within 
view  of  his  post,  for  a  change.  At  the  second 
turn,  when  his  face  happened  to  be  set  toward 
the  open  heath,  he  noticed  another  foot-passen- 
ger— apparently  a  man — far  away  in  the  empty 
distance.  Was  the  person  coming  toward  him  ? 

He  advanced  a  little.  The  stranger  was  doubt- 
less advancing  too,  'so  rapidly  did  his  figure  now 
reveal  itself,  beyond  all  doubt,  as  the  figure  of  a 
man.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  Arnold  fancied 
he  recognized  it.  Yet  a  little  longer,  and  he  was 
quite  sure.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  lithe 
strength  and  grace  of  that  man,  and  the  smooth 
easy  swiftness  with  which  he  covered  his  ground. 
It  was  the  hero  of  the  coming  foot-race.  It  was 
Geoffrey  on  his  way  back  to  Windygates  House. 

Arnold  hurried  forward  to  meet  him.  Geoffrey 
stood  still,  poising  himself  on  his  stick,  and  let 
the  other  come  up. 

"  Have  you  heard  what  has  happened  at  the 
house  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

He  instinctively  checked  the  next  question  as 
it  rose  to  his  lips.*  There  was  a  settled  defiance 
in  the  expression  of  Geoffrey's  face,  which  Arnold 
was  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand.  He  looke'd 
like  a  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  con- 
front any  thing  that  could  happen,  and  to  contra- 
dict any  body  who  spoke  to  him. 

"Something  seems  to  have  annoyed  jrou?" 
said  Arnold. 

"What's  up  at  the  house?"  returned  Geof- 
frey, with  his  loudest  voice  and  his  hardest  look. 

"  Miss  Silvester  has  been  at  the  house." 

"Who  saw  her?" 


"Nobody  but  Blanche." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  dfce  was  miserably  weak  and  ill.  so  ill 
that  she  fainted,  poor  thing,  in  the  library. 
Blanche  brought  her  to." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  We  were  all  at  lunch  at  the  time.     Blanche 
left  the  library,  to  speak  privately  to  her  uncle. 
When  she  went  back  Miss  Silvester  was  gone, 
and  nothing  has  been  seen  of  her  since." 
'  A  row  at  the  house  ?" 
'Nobody  knows  of  it  at  the  house,  except 
Blanche — ' 

'  And  you  ?     And  how  many"  besides  ?" 
'And  Sir  Patrick.     Nobody  else." 
'  Nobody  else  ?    Any  thing  more  ?" 

Arnold  remembered  his  promise  to  keep  the 
investigation  then  on  foot  a  secret  from  every 
body.  Geoffrey's  manner  made  him — uncon- 
sciously to  himself — readier  than  he  might  oth- 
erwise have  been  to  consider  Geoffrey  as  includ- 
ed in  the  general  prohibition. 

"Nothing  more,"  he  answered. 

Geoffrey  dug  the  point  of  his  stick  deep  into 
the  soft,  sandy  ground.  He  looked  at  the  stick, 
then  suddenly  pulled  it  out  of  the  ground  and 
looked  at  Arnold.  "  Good-afternoon  !"  he  said, 
and  went  on  his  way  again  by  himself. 

Arnold  followed,  and  stopped  him.  For  a 
moment  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  with- 
out a  word  passing  on  either  side.  Arnold  spoke 
first. 

"  You're  out  of  humor,  Geoffrey.  What  has 
upset  you  in  this  way  ?  Have  you  and  Miss 
Silvester  missed  each  other?" 

Geoffrey  was  silent. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  she  left  Windy- 
gates  ?" 

No  reply. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Miss  Silvester  is  now  ?" 

Still  no  reply.  Still  the  same  mutely-insolent 
defiance  of  look  and  manner.  Arnold's  dark 
color  began  to  deepen. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me?"  he  said. 

' '  Because  I  have  had  enough  of  it. " 

"  Enough  of  what  ?" 

"Enough  of  being  worried  about  Miss  Silves- 
ter. Miss  Silvester's  my  business — not  yours." 

"  Gently,  Geoffrey !  Don't  forget  that  I  have 
been  mixed  up  in  that  business — without  seeking 
it  myself. " 

"  There's  no  fear  of  my  forgetting.  You  have 
cast  it  in  my  teeth  often  enough." 

"  Cast  it  in  your  teeth  ?" 

"Yes!  Am  I  never  to  hear  the  last  of  my 
obligation  to  you?  The  devil  take  the  obliga- 
tion! I'm  sick  of  the  sound  of  it." 

There  was  a  spirit  in  Arnold  —  not  easily 
brought  to  the  surface,  through  the  overlying 
simplicity  and  good-humor  of  his  ordinary  char- 
acter— which,  once  roused,  was  a  spirit  not  read- 
ily quelled.  Geoffrey  had  roused  it  at  last. 

"When  you  come  to  your  senses,"  he  said, 
"I'll  remember  old  times  —  and  receive  your 
apology.  Till  you  do  come  to  your  senses,  go 
your  way  by  yourself.  I  have  no  more  to  say  to 
you." 

Geoffrey  set  his  teeth,  and  came  one  step  near- 
er. Arnold's  eyes  met  his,  with  a  look  which 
steadily  and  firmly  challenged  him — though  he 
was  the  stronger  man  of  the  two — to  force  the 
quarrel  a  step  further,  if  he  dared.  The  one  hu- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


107 


man  virtue  which  Geoffrey  respected  and  under- 
stood was  the  virtue  of  courage/  And  there  it 
was  before  him — the  undeniable  courage  of  the 
weaker  man.  The  callous  scoundrel  was  touch- 
ed in  the  one  tender  place  in  his  whole  being, 
lie  turned,  and  went  on  his  way  in  silence. 

Left  by  himself,  Arnold's  head  dropped  on  his 
breast.  The  friend  who  had  saved  his  life — the 
one  friend  he  possessed,  who  was  associated  with 
his  earliest  and  happiest  remembrances  of  old 
days  —  na(i  grossly  insulted  him ;  and  had  left 
him  deliberately,  without  the  slightest  expression 
of  regret.  Arnold's  affectionate  nature — sim- 
ple, loyal,  clinging  where  it  once  fastened — was 
wounded  to  the  quick.  Geoffrey's  fast-retreat- 
ing figure,  in  the  open  view  before  him,  became 
blurred  and  indistinct.  He  put  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  and  hid,  with  a  boyish  shame,  the  hot 
tears  "that  told  of  the  heartache,  and  that  honor- 
ed the  man  who  shed  them. 

He  was  still  struggling  with  the  emotion  which 
had  overpowered  him,  when  something  happened 
at  the  place  where  the  roads  met. 

The  four  roads  pointed  as  nearly  as  might  be 
toward  the  four  points  of  the  compass.  Arnold 
was  now  on  the  road  to  the  eastward,  having  ad- 
vanced in  that  direction  to  meet  Geoffrey,  be- 
tween two  and  three  hundred  yards  from  the 
farm-house  inclosure  before  which  he  had  kept 
his  watch.  The  road  to  the  westward,  curving 
away  behind  the  farm,  led  to  the  nearest  market- 
town.  The  road  to  the  south  was  the  way  to 
the  station.  And  the  road  to  the  north  led  back 
to  Windygates  House. 

While  Geoffrey  was  still  fifty  yards  from  the 
turning  which  would  take  him  back  to  Windy- 
gates — while  the  tears  were  still  standing  thickly 
in  Arnold's  eyes — the  gate  of  the  farm  inclosure 
opened.  A  light  four-wheel  chaise  came  out, 
with  a  man  driving,  and  a  woman  sitting  by  his 
side.  The  woman  was  Anne  Silvester,  and  the 
man  was  the  owner  of  the  farvi. 

Instead  of  taking  the  way  which  led  to  the, 
station,  the  chaise  pursued  the  westward  road  to 
the  market-town.  Proceeding  in  this  direction, 
the  backs  of  the  persons  in  the  vehicle  were 
necessarily  turned  on  Geoffrey,  advancing  behind 
them  from  the  eastward.  He  just  carelessly  no- 
ticed the  shabby  little  chaise,  and  then  turned  off 
north  on  his  way  to  Windygates. 

By  the  time  Arnold  was  composed  enough  to 
look  round  him,  the  chaise  had  taken  the  curve 
in  the  road  which  wound  behind  the  farm-house. 
He  returned — faithful  to  the  engagement  which 
he  had  undertaken — to  his  post  before  the  in- 
closure. The  chaise  was  then  a  speck  in  the 
distance.  In  a  minute  more  it  was  a  speck  out 
of  sight. 

So  (to  use  Sir  Patrick's  phrase)  had  the  wo- 
man broken  through  difficulties  which  would  have 
stopped  a  man.  So,  in  her  sore  need,  had  Anne 
Silvester  won  the  sympathy  which  had  given  her 
a  place,  by  the  farmer's  side,  in  the  vehicle  that 
took  him  on  his  own  business  to  the  market- 
town.  And  so,  by  a  hair's-breadth,  did  she 
escape  the  treble  risk  of  discovery  which  threat- 
ened her — from  Geoffrey,  on  his  way  back;  from 
Arnold,  at  his  post ;  and  from  the  valet,  on  the 
watch  for  her  appearance  at  the  station. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  The  sen-ants  at 
Windygntes,  airing  themselves  in  the  grounds — 


in  the  absence  of  their  mistress  and  her  guests — 
were  disturbed,  for  the  moment,  by  the  unex- 
pected return  of  one  of  "  the  gentlefolks."  Mr 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  reappeared  at  the  house, 
alone ;  went  straight  to  the  smoking-room ;  and 
calling  for  another  supply  of  the  old  ale,  settled 
himself  in  an  arm-chair  with  the  newspaper,  and 
began  to  smoke. 

He  soon  tired  of  reading,  and  fell  into  think- 
ing of  what  had  happened  during  the  latter  part 
of  his  walk*. 

The  prospect  before  him  had  more  than  real- 
ized the  most  sanguine  anticipations  that  he  could 
have  formed  of  it.  He  had  braced  himself — 
after  what  had  happened  in  the  library — to  face 
the  outbreak  of  a  serious  scandal,  on  his  return 
to  the  house.  And  here — when  he  came  back — 
was  nothing  to  face !  Here  were  three  people 
(Sir  Patrick,  Arnold,  and  Blanche)  who  must  at 
least  know  that  Anne  was  in  some  serious  trouble, 
keeping  the  secret  as  carefully  as  if  they  felt  that 
his  interests  were  at  stake  !  And,  more  wonder- 
ful still,  here  was  Anne  herself — so  far  from  rais- 
ing a  hue  and  cry  after  him — actually  taking 
flight,  without  saying  a  word  that  could  compro- 
mise him  with  any  living  soul ! 

What  in  the  name  of  wonder  did  it  mean? 
He  did  his  best  to  find  his  way  to  an  explanation 
of  some  sort ;  and  he  actually  contrived  to  ac- 
count for  the  silence  of  Blanche  and  her  uncle, 
and  Arnold.  It  was  pretty  clear  that  they  must 
have  all  three  combined  to  keep  Lady  Lundie  in 
ignorance  of  her  runaway  governess's  return  to 
the  house. 

But  the  secret  of  Anne's  silence  completely 
baffled  him. 

He  was  simply  incapable  of  conceiving  that  the 
horror  of  seeing  herself  set  up  as  an  obstacle  to 
Blanche's  marriage  might  have  been  vivid  enough 
to  overpower  all  sense  of  her  own  wrongs,  and  to 
hurry  her  away,  resolute,  in  her  ignorance  of 
what  else  to  do,  never  to  return  again,  and  never 
to  let  living  eyes  rest  on  her  in  the  character  of 
Arnold's  wife.  "It's  clean  beyond  my  making 
out,"  was  the  final  conclusion  at  which  Geoffrey 
arrived.  ' '  If  it's  her  interest  to  hold  her  tongue, 
it's  my  interest  to  hold  mine,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it  for  the  present ! " 

He  put  ftp  his  feet  on  a  chair,  and  rested  his 
magnificent  muscles  after  his  walk,  and  filled 
another  pipe,  in  thorough  contentment  with  him- 
self. No  interference  to  dread  from  Anne,  no 
more  awkward  questions  (on  the  terms 'they  were 
on  now)  to  come  from  Arnold.  He  looked  back 
at  the  quarrel  on  the  heath  with  a  certain  com- 
placency— he  did  his  friend  justice,  though  they 
had  disagreed.  "  Who  would  have  thought  the 
fellow  had  so  much  pluck  in  him!"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  struck  the  match  and  lit  his  sec- 
ond pipe. 

An  hour  more  wore  on ;  and  Sir  Patrick  was 
the  next  person  who  returned. 

He  was  thoughtful,  but  in  no  sense  depressed. 
Judging  by  appearances,  his  errand  to  Craig 
Fernie  had  certainly  not  ended  in  disappoint- 
ment. The  old  gentleman  hummed  his  favorite 
little  Scotch  air — rather  absently,  perhaps — and 
took  his  pinch  of  snuff  from  the  knob  of  his  ivory 
cane  much  as  usual.  He  went  to  the  library  bell 
and  summoned  a  servant. 

"Any  body  been  here  for  me?" — "No,  Sir 
Patrick""— "  Np  letters?"— "No,  Sir  Patrick."— 


108 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Very  well.  Come  up  stairs  to  my  room,  and 
help  me  on  with  my  dressing-gown. "  The  man 
helped  him  to  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers. 
"Is  Miss  Lundie  at  home?" — "No,  Sir  Pat- 
rick. They're  all  away  with  my  lady  on  an  ex- 
cursion."— "Very  good.  Get  me  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee ;  and  wake  me  half  an  hour  before  dinner, 
hi  case  I  take  a  nap."  The  servant  went  out. 
Sir  Patrick  stretched  himself  on  the  sofa.  ' '  Ay ! 
ay!  a  little  aching  in  the  back,  and  a  certain 
stiffness  in  the  legs.  I  dare  say  the  pony  feels 
just  as  I  do.  Age,  I  suppose,  in  both  cases? 
Well!  well!  well!  let's  try  and  be  young  at 
heart.  'The  rest'  (as  Pope  says)  'is  leather  and 
prunella. ' "  He  returned  resignedly  to  his  little 
Scotch  air.  The  servant  came  in  with  the  coffee. 
And  then  the  room  was  quiet,  except  for  the  low 
humming  of  insects  and  the  gentle  rustling  of  the 
creepers  at  the  window.  For  five  minutes  or  so 
Sir  Patrick  sipped  his  coffee,  and  meditated — by 
no  means  in  the  character  of  a  man  who  was 
depressed  by  any  recent  disappointment.  In  five 
minutes  more  he  was  asleep. 

A  little  later,  and  the  party  returned  from  the 
ruins. 

With  the  one  exception  of  their  lady-leader, 
the  whole  expedition  was  depressed — Smith  and 
Jones,  in  particular,  being  quite  speechless.  Lady 
Lundie  alone  still  met  feudal  antiquities  with  a 
cheerful  front.  She  had  cheated  the  man  who 
showed  the  ruins  of  his  shilling,  and  she  was 
thoroughly  well  satisfied  with  herself.  Her  voice 
was  flute-like  in  its  melody,  and  the  celebrated 
"  smile"  had  never  been  in  better  order.  "  Deep- 
ly interesting!"  said  her  ladyship,  descending 
from  the  carriage  with  ponderous  grace,  and  ad- 
dressing herself  to  Geoffrey,  lounging  under  the 
portico  of  the  house.  "  You  have  had  a  loss,  Mr. 
Delamayn.  The  next  time  you  go  out  for  a 
walk,  give  your  hostess  a  word  of  warning,  and 
you  won't  repent  it."  Blanche  (looking  very 
weary  and  anxious)  questioned  the  servant,  the 
moment  she  got  in,  about  Arnold  and  her  uncle. 
Sir  Patrick  was  invisible  up  stairs.  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  had  not  come  back.  It  wanted  only  twen- 
ty minutes  of  dinner-time;  and  full  evening- 
dress  was  insisted  on  at  Windygates.  Blanche, 
nevertheless,  still  lingered  in  the  hall  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  Arnold  before  she  went  up  stairs. 
The  hope  was  realized.  As  the  clock  struck  the 
quarter  he  came  in.  And  he,  too,  was  out  of 
spirits  like  the  rest  I 

"  Have  you  seen  her?"  asked  Blanche.    . 

"No,"  said  Arnold,  in  the  most  perfect  good 
faith.  "The  way  she  has  escaped  by  is  not  the 
way  by  the  cross-roads — I  answer  for  that." 

They  separated  to  dress.  When  the  party  as- 
sembled again,  in  the  library,  before  dinner, 
Blanche  found  her  way,  the  moment  he  entered 
the  room,  to  Sir  Patrick  s  side. 

"News,  uncle!     I'm  dying  for  news." 

"  Good  news,  my  dear — so  far." 

"  You  have  found  Anne?" 

"Not  exactly  that." 

"  You  have  heard  of  her  at  Craig  Fernie  ?" 

"  I  have  made  some  important  discoveries  at 
Craig  Fernie,  Blanche.  Hush !  here's  your  step- 
mother. Wait  till  after  dinner,  and  you  may 
hear  more  than  I  can  tell  you  now.  There  may 
be  news  from  the  station  between  this  and  then. " 

The  dinner  was  a  wearisome  ordeal  to  at  least 
two  other  persons  present  besides  Blanche.  Ar- 


nold, sitting  opposite  to  Geoffrey,  without  ex- 
changing a  word  with  him,  felt  the  altered  rela- 
tions between  his  former  friend  and  himself  very 
painfully.  Sir  Patrick,  missing  the  skilled  hand 
of  Hester  Dethridge  in  every  dish  that  was  offered 
to  him,  marked  the  dinner  among  the  wasted  op- 
portunities of  his  life,  and  resented  his  sister-in- 
law's  flow  of  spirits  as  something  simply  inhuman 
under  present  circumstances.  Blanche  followed 
Lady  Lundie  into  the  drawing-room  in  a  state  of 
burning  impatience  for  the  rising  of  the  gentlemen 
from  their  wine.  Her  step-mother — mapping  out 
a  new  antiquarian  excursion  for  the  next  day,  and 
finding  Blanche's  ears  closed  to  her 'occasional 
remarks  on  baronial  Scotland  five  hundred  years 
since — lamented,  with  satirical  emphasis,  the  ab- 
sence of  an  intelligent  companion  of  her  own 
sex;  and  stretched  her  majestic  figure  on  the 
sofa  to  wait  until  an  audience  worthy  of  her 
flowed  in  from  the  dining-room.  Before  very 
long — so  soothing  is  the  influence  of  an  after- 
dinner  view  of  feudal  antiquities,  taken  through 
the  medium  of  an  approving  conscience — Lady 
Lundie's  eyes  closed ;  and  from  Lady  Lundie' s 
nose  there  poured,  at  intervals,  a  sound,  deep, 
like  her  ladyship's  learning;  regular,  like  her 
ladyship's  habits — a  sound  associated  with  night- 
caps and  bedrooms ;  evoked  alike  by  Nature,  the 
leveler,  from  high  and  low — the  sound  (oh,  Truth, 
what  enormities  find  publicity  in  thy  name!) — the 
sound  of  a  Snore. 

Free  to  do  as  she  pleased,  Blanche  left  the 
echoes  of  the  drawing-room  in  undisturbed  en- 
joyment of  Lady  Lundie's  audible  repose. 

She  went  into  the  library,  and  turned  over  the 
novels.  Went  out  again,  and  looked  across  the 
hall  at  the  dining-room  door.  Would  the  men 
never  have  done  talking  their  politics  and  drink- 
ing their  wine?  She  went  up  to  her  own  room, 
and  changed  her  ear-rings,  and  scolded  her  maid. 
Descended  once  more-^-and  made  an  alarming 
discovery  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  hall. 

Two  men  were  standing  there,  hat  in  hand, 
whispering  to  the  butler.  The  butler,  leaving 
them,  went  into  the  dining-room  —  came  out 
again  with  Sir  Patrick — and  said  to  the  two 
men,  "Step  this  way,  please."  The  two  men 
came  out  into  the  light.  Murdoch,  the  sta- 
tion-master ;  and  Duncan,  the  valet !  News  of 
Anne ! 

"  Oh,  uncle,  let  me  stay !"  pleaded  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  hesitated.  It  was  impossible  to 
say — as  matters  stood  at  that  moment — what 
distressing  intelligence  the  two  men  might  not 
have  brought  of  the  missing  woman.  Duncan's 
return,  accompanied  by  the  station-master,  look- 
ed serious.  Blanche  instantly  penetrated  the  se- 
cret of  her  uncle's  hesitation.  She  turned  pale, 
and  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "Don't  send  me 
away,"  she  whispered.  "I  can  bear  any  thing 
but  suspense. " 

"Out  with  it!"  said  Sir  Patrick,  holding  his 
niece's  hand.  "  Is  she  found  or  not  ?" 

"She's  gone  by  the  up-train,"  said  the  sta- 
tion-master. "And  we  know  where." 

Sir  Patrick  breathed  freely ;  Blanche's  color 
came  back.  In  different  ways,  the  relief  to  both 
of  them  was  equally  great. 

"You  had-  my  orders  to  follow  her,"  said  Sir 
Patrick  to  Duncan.  "Why  have  you  come 
back?" 

"Your  man  is  not  to  blame,  Sir,"  interposed 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


the  station-master.     "The" lady  took  the  train 
at  Kirkandrew." 

Sir  Patrick  started,  and  looked  at  the  station- 
master.  "Ay?  ay?  The  next  station — the 
market-town.  Inexcusably  stupid  of  me.  I 
never  thought  of  that. " 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  telegraphing  your  de- 
scription of  the  lady  to  Kirkahdrew,  Sir  Patrick, 
in  case  of  accidents."  « 

"I  stand  corrected,  Mr.  Murdoch.  Your 
head,  in  this  matter,  has  been  the  sharper  head 
of  the  two.  Well?'1 

"There's  the  answer,  Sir." 

Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche  read  the  telegram  to- 
gether. 

"Kirkandrew.  Up  train.  7.40  P.M.  Lady 
as  described.  No  luggage.  Bag  in  her  hand. 
Traveling  alone.  Ticket — second-class.  Place 
— Edinburgh." 

"  Edinburgh !"  repeated  Blanche.  "  Oh,  un- 
cle! we  shall  lose  her  in  a  great  place  like 
that!" 

"We  shall  find  her,  my  dear;  and  you  shall 
see  how.     Duncan,  get  me  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
Mr.  Murdoch,  you  are  going  back  to  the  station, 
I  suppose?" 
j  "  Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  telegram,  to  be  sent  at  once 
to  Edinburgh." 

lie  wrote  a  carefully-worded  telegraphic  mes- 
sage, and  addressed  it  to  The  Sheriff  of  Mid- 
Lothian. 

"The  Sheriff  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  he 
explained  to  his  niece.  "And  he  is  now  in 
Edinburgh.  Long  before  the  train  gets  to  the 
terminus  he  will  receive  this  personal  description 
of  Miss  Silvester,  with  my  request  to  have  all  her 
movements  carefully  watched  till  further  notice. 
The  police  are  entirely  at  his  disposal,  and  the 
best  men  will  be  selected  for  the  purpose.  I  have 
asked  for  an  answer  by  telegraph.  Keep  a  spe- 
cial messenger  ready  for  it  at  the  station,  Mr. 
Murdoch.  Thank  yon ;  good-evening.  Dun- 
can, get  your  supper,  and  make  yourself  com- 
fortable. Blanche,  my  dear,  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  expect  us  in  to  tea  imme- 
diately. You  will  know  where  your  friend  is 
before  you  go  to  bed  to-night. " 

With  those  comforting  words  he  returned  to 
the  gentlemen.  In  ten  minutes  more  they  all 
appeared  in  the  drawing-room ;  and  Lady  Lun- 
die  (firmly  persuaded  that  she  had  never  closed 
her  eyes)  was  back  again  in  baronial  Scotland 
five  hundred  years  since. 

Blanche,  watching  her  opportunity,  caught  her 
uncle  alone. 

"Now  for  your  promise,"  she  said.  "You 
have  made  some  important  discoveries  at  Craig 
Femie.  What  are  they  ?" 

Sir  Patrick's  eye  turned  toward  Geoffrey, 
dozing  in  an  arm-chair  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 
He  showed  a  certain  disposition  to  trifle  with  the 
curiosity  of  his  niece. 

"After  the  discovery  we  have  already  made," 
he  said,  "can't  you  wait,  my  dear,  till  we  get 
the  telegram  from  Edinburgh  ?" 

"That  is  just  what  it's  impossible  for  me  to 
do !  The  telegram  won't  come  for  hours  yet.  I 
want  something  to  go  on  with  in  the  mean  time." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  sofa  in  the  corner  op- 
posite Geoffrey,  and  pointed  to  the  vacant  place 
by  her  side. 


Sir  Patrick  had  promised — Sir  Patrick  had  no 
choice  but  to  keep  his  word.  After  another  look 
at  Geoffrey,  he  took  the  vacant  place  by  his  niece. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH. 

BACKWARD. 

"  WELL  ?"  whispered  Blanche,  taking  her  un- 
cle confidentially  by  the  arm. 

"  WTell,;>  said  Sir  Patrick,  with  a  spark  of  his 
satirical  humor  flashing  out  at  his  niece,  "I  am 
going  to  do  a  very  rash  thing.  I  am  going  to 
place  a  serious  trust  in  the  hands  of  'a  girl  of 
eighteen. " 

' '  The  girl's  hands  will  keep  it,  uncle — though 
she  is  only  eighteen. " 

"  I  must  run  the  risk,  my  dear ;  your  intimate 
knowledge  of  Miss  Silvester  may  be  of  the  great- 
est assistance  to  me  in  the  next  step  I  take.  You 
shall  know  all  that  I  can  tell  you,  but  I  must 
warn  you  first.  I  can  only  admit  you  into  my 
confidence  by  startling  you  with  a  great  surprise. 
Do  you  follow  me,  so  far  ?" 

"Yes!,  yes!" 

"If  you  fail  to  control  yourself,  you  place  an 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  my  being  of  some  future 
use  to  Miss  Silvester.  Remember  that,  and  now 
prepare  for  the  surprise.  What  did  I  tell  you 
before  dinner  ?" 

"  You  said  yon  had  made  discoveries  at  Craig 
Fernie.  What  have  you  found  out?" 

"I  have  found  out  that  there  is  a  certain  per- 
son who  is  in  full  possession  of  the  information 
which  Miss  Silvester  has  concealed  from  you  and 
from  me.  The  person  is  within  our  reach.  The 
person  is  in  this  neighborhood.  The  person  is 
in  this  room!" 

He  caught  up  Blanche's  hand,  resting  on  his 
arm,  and  pressed  it  significantly.  She  looked  at 
him  with  the  cry  of  surprise  suspended  on  her 
lips — waited  a  little  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Sir 
Patrick's  face — struggled  resolutely,  and  com- 
posed herself. 

"Point  the  person  out."  She  said  the  words 
with  a  self-possession  which  won  her  uncle's 
hearty  approval.  Blanche  had  done  wonders  for 
a  girl  in  her  teens. 

"Look!"  said  Sir  Patrick;  "and  tell  me 
what  you  see." 

"I  see  Lady  Lundie,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  with  the  map  of  Perthshire  and  the  Ba- 
ronial Antiquities  of  Scotland  on  the  table.  And 
I  see  every  body  but  you  and  me  obliged  to  listen 
to  her. " 

"Everybody?" 

Blanche  looked  carefully  round  the  room,  and 
noticed  Geoffrey  in  the  opposite  corner ;  fast 
asleep  by  this  time  in  his  arm-chair. 

"Uncle!  you  don't  mean — ?" 

" There  is  the  man." 

"Mr.  Delamayn — !" 

"Mr.  Delamayn  knows  every  thing." 

Blanche  held  me'chanically  by  her  uncle's  arm, 
and  looked  at  the  sleeping  man  as  if  her  eyes 
could  never  see  enough  of  him. 

"You  saw  me  in  the  library  in  private  con- 
sultation with  Mr.  Delamayn,"  resumed  Sir  Pat- 
rick. ' '  I  have  to  acknowledge,  my  dear,  that 
you  were  quite  right  in  thinking  this  a  suspicious 
i  circumstance.  And  I  am  now  to  justify  myself 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


for  having  purposely  kept  you  in  the  dark  up  to 
the  present  time." 

With  those  introductory  words,  he  briefly  re- 
verted to  the  earlier  occurrences  of  the  day,  and 
then  added,  by  way  of  commentary,  a  statement 
of  the  conclusions  which  events  had  suggested 
to  his  own  mind. 

The  events,  it  may  be  remembered,  were  three 
in  number.  First,  Geoffrey's  private  conference 
with  Sir  Patrick  on  the  subject  of  Irregular.  Mar- 
riages in  Scotland.  Secondly,  Anne  Silvester's 
appearance  at  Windygates.  Thirdly,  Anne's 
flight. 

The  conclusions  which  had  thereupon  suggest- 
ed themselves  to  Sir  Patrick's  mind  were  six  in 
number. 

First,  that  a  connection  of  some  sort  might 
possibly  exist  between  Geoffrey's  acknowledged 
difficulty  about  his  friend,  and  Miss  Silvester's 
presumed  difficulty  about  herself.  Secondly,  that 
Geoffrey  had  really  put  to  Sir  Patrick — not  his 
own  case — but  the  case  of  a  friend.  Thirdly, 
that  Geoffrey  had  some  interest  (of  no  harmless 
kind)  in  establishing  the  fact  of  his  friend's  mar- 
riage. Fourthly,  that  Anne's  anxiety  (as  de- 
scribed by  Blanche)  to  hear  the  names  of  the 
gentlemen  who  were  staying  at  Windygates, 
pointed,  in  all  probability,  to  Geoffrey.  Fifthly, 
that  this  last  inference  disturbed  the  second  con- 
clusion, and  reopened  the  doubt  whether  Geof- 
frey had  not  been  stating  his  own  case,  after  all, 
under  pretense  of  stating  the  case  of  a  friend. 
Sixthly,  that  the  one  way  of  obtaining  any  en- 
lightenment .on  this  point,  and  on  all  the  other 
points  involved  in  mystery,  was  to  go  to  Craig 
Fernie,  and  consult  Mrs.  Inchbare's  experience 
during  the  period  of  Anne's  residence  at  the  inn. 
Sir  Patrick's  apology  for  keeping  all  this  a  secret 
from  his  niece  followed.  He  had  shrunk  from 
agitating  her  on  the  subject  until  he  could  be 
sure  of  proving  his  suspicions  to  be  true.  The 
proof  had  now  been  obtained ;  and  his  mind  had 
been  opened  to  Blanche  without  reserve. 

"So  much,  my  dear,"  proceeded  Sir  Patrick, 
"  for  those  necessary  explanations  which  are  also 
the  necessary  nuisances  of  human  intercourse. 
You  now  know  as  much  as  I  did  when  I  arrived 
at  Craig  Fernie — and  you  are,  therefore,  in  a 
position  to  appreciate  the  value  of  my  discover- 
ies at  the  inn.  Do  you  understand  every  thing, 
so  far  ?" 

"Perfectly!" 

' '  Very  good.  I  drove  up  to  the  inn ;  and — 
behold  me  closeted  with  Mrs.  Inchbare  in  her 
own  private  parlor !  (My  reputation  may  or  may 
not  suffer,  but  Mrs.  Inchbare's  bones  are  above 
suspicion!)  It  was  a  long  business,  Blanche. 
A  more  sour-tempered,  cunning,  and  distrustful 
witness  I  ne/er  examined  in  all  my  experience 
at  the  Bar.  She  would  have  upset  the  temper 
of  any  mortal  man  but  a  lawyer.  We  have  such 
wonderful  tempers  in  our  profession ;  and  we  can 
be  so  aggravating  when  we  like !  In  short,  my 
dear,  Mrs.  Inchbare  was  a  she-cat,  and  I  was  a 
he-cat — and  I  clawed  the  truth  out  of  her  at  last. 
The  result  was  well  worth  arriving  at,  as  you 
shall  see.  Mr.  Delamayn  had  described  to  me 
certain  remarkable  circumstances  as  taking  place 
between  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  at  an  inn :  the 
object  of  the  parties  being  to  pass  themselves  off 
at  the  time  as  man  and  wife.  Every  one  of  those 
circumstances,  Blanche,  occurred  at  Craig  Fer- 


nie, between  a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  on  the  day 
when  Miss  Silvester  disappeared  from  this  house. 
And — wait ! — being  pressed  for  her  name,  after 
the  gentleman  had  left  her  behind  him  at  the 
inn,  the  name  the  lady  gave  was,  'Mrs.  Silvester.' 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  Think !    I'm  bewildered — I  can't  realize  it." 

"It's  a  startling  discovery,  my  dear  child — 
there  is  no  denying  that.  Shall  I  wait  a  little, 
and  let  you  recover  yourself?" 

"No!  no!  Goon!  The  •gentleman,  uncle? 
The  gentleman  who  was  with  Anne  ?  Who  is 
he  ?  Not  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

"Not  Mr.  Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  If 
I  have  proved  nothing  else,  I  have  proved  that. " 

"What  need  was  there  to  prove  it?  Mr. 
Delamayn  went  to  London  on  the  day  of  the 
lawn-party.  And  Arnold — " 

"  And  Arnold  went  with  him  as  far  as.  the 
second  station  from  this.  Quite  true !  But  how 
was  I  to  know  what  Mr.  Delamayn  might  have 
done  after  Arnold  had  left  him  ?  I  could  only 
make  sure  that  he  had  not  gone  back  privately 
to  the  inn,  by  getting  the  proof  from  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare." 
•  ' '  Plow  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"I  asked  her  to  describe  the  gentleman  who 
was  with  Miss  Silvester.  Mrs.  Inchbare's  de- 
scription (vague  as  you  will  presently  find  it  to 
be)  completely  exonerates  that  man,"  said  Sir 
Patrick,  pointing  to  Geoffrey  still  asleep  in  his 
chair.  "  He  is  not  the  person  who  passed  Miss 
Silvester  off  as  his  wife  at  Craig  Fernie.  He 
spoke  the  truth  when  he  described  the  case  to 
me  as  the  case  of  a  friend. " 

' '  But  who  is  the  friend  ?"  persisted  Blanche. 
"  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,  too." 

"  Tell  me  exactly,  uncle,  what  Mrs.  Inchbare 
said.  I  have  lived  with  Anne  all  my  life.  I 
\iiust  have  seen  the  man  somewhere." 

"If -you  can  identify  him  by  Mrs.  Inchbare's 
description,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "you  will  be 
a  great  deal  cleverer  than  I  am.  Here  is  the 
picture  of  the  man,  as  painted  by  the  landlady : 
Young ;  middle-sized  ;  dark  hair,  eyes,  and  com- 
plexion ;  nice  temper ;  pleasant  way  of  speak- 
ing. Leave  out  '  young, '  and  the  rest  is  the  ex- 
act contrary  of  Mr.  Delamayn.  So  far,  Mrs. 
Inchbare  guides  us  plainly  enough.  But  how 
are  we  to  apply  her  description  to  the  right  per- 
son ?  There  must  be,  at  the  lowest  computation, 
five  hundred  thousand  men  in  England  who  are 
young,  middle-sized,  dark,  nice-tempered,  and 
pleasant  spoken.  One  of  the  footmen  here  an- 
swers that  description  in  every  particular." 

"And  Arnold  answers  it,"  said  Blanche — as 
a  still  stronger  instance  of  the  provoking  vague- 
ness of  the  description. 

"And  Arnold  answers  it,"  repeated  Sir  Pat- 
rick, quite  agreeing  with  her. 

They  had  barely  said  those  words  when  Ar- 
nold himself  appeared,  approaching  Sir  Patrick 
with  a  pack  of  cards  in  his  hand. 

There — at  the  very  moment  when  they  had 
both  guessed  the  truth,  without  feeling  the  slight- 
est suspicion  of  it  in  their  own  minds — there 
stood  Discovery,  presenting  itself  unconsciously 
to  eyes  incapable  of  seeing  it,  in  the  person  of 
the  man  who  had  passed  Anne  Silvester  off  as 
his  wife  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn !  The  terrible 
caprice  of  Chance,  the  merciless  irony  of  Circum- 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


Ill 


stance,  could  go  no  further  than  this.  The  three 
had  their  feet  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice  at 
that  moment.  And  two  of  them  were  smiling 
at  an  odd  coincidence;  and  one  of  them  was 
shuffling  a  pack  of  cards ! 

"  We  have  done  with  the  Antiquities'at  last !" 
said  Arnold ;  ' '  and  we  are  going  to  play  at  Whist. 
Sir  Patrick,  will  you  choose  a  card?" 

"Too  soon  after  dinner,  my  good  fellow,  for 
me.  Play  the  first  rubber,  and  then  give  me  an- 
other chance.  By-the-way,"  he  added,  "Miss 
Silvester  has  been  traced  to  Kirkandrew.  How 
is  it  that  you  never  saw  her  go  by  ?" 

"She  can't  have  gone  my  way,  Sir  Patrick, 
or  I  must  have  seen  her. " 

Having  justified  himself  in  those  terms,  he  was 
recalled  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  by  the  whist- 
party,  impatient  for  the  cards  which  he  had  in 
his  hand. 

"  What  were  we  talking  of  when  he  interrupt- 
ed us  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick  to  Blanche. 

"  Of  the  man,  uncle,  who  was  with  Miss  Sil- 
vester at  the  inn." 

"It's  useless  to  pursue  that  inquiry,  my  dear, 
with  nothing  better  than  Mrs.  Inchbare's  descrip- 
tion to  help  us." 

Blanche  looked  round  at  the  sleeping  Geoffrey. 

"And  he  knows!"  she  said.  "It's  madden- 
ing, uncle,  to  look  at  the  brute  snoring  in  his 
chair!" 

Sir  Patrick  held  up  a  warning  hand.  Before 
a  word  more  could  be  said  between  them  they 
were  silenced  again  by  another  interruption. 

The  whist-party  comprised  Bady  Lundie  and 
the  surgeon,  playing  as  partners  against  Smith 
and  Jones.  Arnold  sat  behind  the  surgeon,  tak- 
ing a  lesson  in  the  game.  One,  Two,  and  Three, 
thus  left  to  their  own  devices,  naturally  thought 
of  the  billiard-table ;  and,  detecting  Geoffrey 
asleep  in  his  corner,  advanced  to  disturb  his 
slumbers,  under  the  all -sufficing  apology  of. 
"Pool."  Geoffrey  roused  himself,  and  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  said",  drowsily,  "All  right."  As 
he  rose,  he  looked  at  the  opposite  corner  in 
which  Sir  Patrick  and  his  niece  were  sitting. 
Blanche's  self-possession,  resolutely  as  she  strug- 
gled to  preserve  it,  was  not  strong  enough  to 
keep  her  eyes  from  turning  toward  Geoffrey, 
with  an  expression  which  betrayed  the  reluctant 
interest  that  she  now  felt  in  him.  He  stopped, 
noticing  something  entirely  new  in  the  look  with 
which  the  young  lady  was  regarding  him. 

"Beg  your  pardon, "  said  Geoffrey.  ' '  Do  you 
wish  .to  speak  to  me  ?" 

Blanche's  face  flushed  all  over.  Her  uncle 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"Miss  Lundie  and  Phone  you  have  slept  well, 
Mr.  Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick",  jocosely. 
"  That's  all." 

"Oh?  That's  all?"  said  Geoffrey,  still  look- 
ing at  Blanche.  "  Beg  your  pardon  again. 
Deuced  long  walk,  and  deuced  heavy  dinner. 
Natural  consequence — a  nap." 

Sir  Patrick  eyed  him  closely.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  been  honestly  puzzled  at  finding  him- 
self an  object  of  special  attention  on  Blanche's 
part.  "  See  you  in  the  billiard-room  ?"  he  said, 
carelessly,  and  followed  his  companions  out  of 
the  room — as  usual,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer." 

"Mind  what  you  are  about,"  said  Sir  Patrick 
to  his  niece.  "That  man  is  quicker  than  he 


looks.     We  commit  a  serious  mistake  if  we  put 
him  on  his  guard  at  starting." 

"It  sha'n't  happen  again,  uncle,"  said  Blanche. 
"  But  think  of  his  being  in  Anne's  confidence, 
and  of  my  being  shut  out  of  it ! " 

"In  his  friend's  confidence,  you  mean,  my 
dear ;  and  (if  we  only  avoid  awakening  his  sus- 
picion) there  is  no  knowing  how  soon  he  may 
say  or  do  something  which  may  show  us  who  his 
friend  is." 

"  But  he  is  going  back  to  his  brother's  to-mor- 
row— he  said  so  at  dinner-time." 

•  "  So  much  the  better.  He  will  be  out  of  the 
way  of  seeing  strange  things  in  a  certain  young 
lady's  face.  His  brother's  house  is  within  easy 
reach  of  this ;  and  I  am  his  legal  adviser.  My 
experience  tells  me  that  he  hag  not  done  consult- 
ing me  yet — and  that  he  will  let  out  .something 
more  next  time.  So  much  for  our  chance  of 
seeing  the  light  through  Mr.  Delamayn — if  we 
can't  see  it  in  any  other  way.  And  that  is  not 
our  only  chance,  remember.  I  have  something 
to  tell  you  about  Bishopriggs  and  the  lost  letter." 

"Is  it  found?" 

"No.  I  satisfied  myself  about  that — I  had 
it  searched  for,  under  my  own  eye.  The  letter 
is  stolen,  Blanche ;  and  Bishopriggs  has  got  it. 
f  have  left  a  line  for  him,  in  Mrs.  Inchbare's 
care.  The  old  rascal  is  missed  already  by  the 
visitors  at  the  inn,  just  as  I  told  you  he  would 
be.  His  mistress  is  feeling  the  penalty  of  having 
been  fool  enough  to  vent  her  ill  temper  on  her 
head-waiter.  She  lays  the  whole  blame  of  the 
quarrel  on  Miss  Silvester,  of  course.  Bishop- 
riggs neglected  every  body  at  the  inn  to  wait  on 
Miss  Silvester.  Bishopriggs  was  insolent  on 
being  remonstrated  with!  and  Miss  Silvester  en- 
couraged him — and  so  on.  The  result  will  be — 
now -Miss  Silvester  has  gone — that  Bishopriggs 
will  return  to  Craig  Fernie  before  the  autumn  is 
over.  We  are  sailing  with  wind  and  tide,  my 
dear.  Come,  and  learn  to  play  whist." 

He  rose  to  join  the  card-players.  Blanche 
detained  him. 

"You  haven't  told  me  one  thing  yet,"  she 
said.  "Whoever  the  man  may  be,  is  Anne 
married  to  him  ?" 

"Whoever  the  man  may  be,"  returned  Sir 
Patrick,  "he  had  better  not  attempt  to  mairy 
any  body  else. " 

So  the  niece  unconsciously  put  the  question, 
and  so  the  uncle  unconsciously  gave  the  answer, 
on  which  depended  the  whole  happiness  of 
Blanche's  life  to  come.  The  "man!"  How 
lightly  they  both  talked  of  the  "man !"  Would 
nothing  happen  to  rouse  the  faintest  suspicion — 
in  their  minds  or  in  Arnold's  mind — that  Arnold 
was  the  "man"  himself? 

"  You  mean  that  she  is  married  ?"  said 
Blanche.  ^ 

'  I  don't  go  as  far  as  that." 
'  You  mean  that  she  is  not  married  ?" 
'  I  don't  go  so  far  as  that." 
'Oh!  the  law!" 

'Provoking,  isn't  it,  my  dear?  I  can  tell 
you,  professionally,  that  (in  my  opinion)  she  has 
grounds  to  go  on  if  she  claims  to  be  the  man's 
wife.  That  is  what  I  meant  by  my  answer; 
and,  until  we  know  more,  that  is  all  I  can 


"When  shall  we  know  more? 
we  get  the  telegram  ?" 


When  shall 


112 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Not  for  some  hours  yet.  Come,  and  learn  to 
play  whist. " 

"I  think  I  would  rather  talk  to  Arnold,  uncle, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

""  By  all  means !  But  don't  talk  to  him  about 
what  I  have  been  telling  you  to-night.  He  and 
Mr.  Delamayn  are  old  associates,  remember ; 
and  he  might  blunder  into  telling  his  friend  what 
his  friend  had  better  not  know.  Sad  (isn't  it  ?) 
for  me  to  be  instilling  these  lessons  of  duplicity 
into  the  youthful  mind.  A  wise  person  once 
said,  '  The  older  a  man  gets  the  worse  he  gets. ' 
That  wise  person,  my  dear,  had  me  in  his  eye, 
arid  was  perfectly  right." 

He  mitigated  the  pain  of  that  confession  with 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  went  to  the  whist-table  to 
wait  until  the  end  of  the  rubber  gave  him  a  place 
at  the  game. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH. 

FORWARD. 

BLANCHE  found  her  lover  as  attentive  as  usual 
to  her  slightest  wish,  but  not  in  his  customary 
good  spirits.  He  pleaded  fatigue,  after  his  long 
watch  at  the  cross-roads,  as  an  excuse  for  his  de- 
pression. As  long  as  there  was  any  hope  of  a 
reconciliation  with  Geoffrey,  he  was  unwilling 
to  tell  Blanche  what  had  happened  that  after- 
noon. The  hope  grew  fainter  and  fainter  as  the 
evening  advanced.  Arnold  purposely  suggested 
a  visit  to  the  billiard-room,  and  joined  the  game, 
with  Blanche,  to  give  Geoffrey  an  opportunity  of 
saying  the  few  gracious  words  which  would  have 
made  them  friends  again.  Geoffrey  never  spoke 
the. words ;  he  obstinately  ignored  Arnold's  pres- 
ence in  the  room. 

At  the  card-table  the  whist  went  on  intermin- 
ably. Lady  Lundie,  Sir  Patrick,  and  the  sur- 
geon, were  all  inveterate  players,  evenly  match- 
ed. Smith  and  Jones  (joining  the  game  altern- 
ately) were  aids  to  whist,  exactly  as  they  were 
aids  to  conversation.  The  same  safe  and  modest 
mediocrity  of  style  distinguished  the  proceedings 
of  these  two  gentlemen  in  all  the  affairs  of  life. 

The  time  wore  on  to  midnight.  They  went  to 
bed  late  and  they  rose  late  at  Windygates  House. 
Under  that  hospitable  roof,  no  intrusive  hints,  in 
the  shape  of  flat  candlesticks  exhibiting  them- 
selves with  ostentatious  virtue  on  side-tables, 
hurried  the  guest  to  his  room  ;  no  vile  bell  rang 
him  ruthlessly  out  of  bed  the  next  morning,  and 
insisted  on  his  breakfasting  at  a  given  hour. 
Life  has  surely  hardships  enough  that  are  inevi- 
table, without  gratuitously  adding  the  hardship 
of  absolute  government,  administered  by  a  clock  ? 

It  was  a  quarter  past  twelve  when  Lady  Lun- 
die rose  blandly  from  the  whist-table,  and  said 
that  she  supposed  somebody  must  set  the  exam- 
ple of  going  to  bed.  Sir  Patrick  and  Smith,  the 
surgeon  and  Jones,  agreed  on  a  last  rubber. 
Blanche  vanished  while  her  step-mother's  eye  was 
on  her ;  and  appeared  again  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  Lady  Lundie  was  safe  in  the  hands  of  her 
maid.  Nobody  followed  the  example  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  but  Arnold.  He  left  the  bill- 
iard-room with  the  certainty  that  it  was  all  over 
now  between  Geoffrey  and  himself.  Not  even 
the  attraction  of  Blanche  proved  strong  enough 
to  detain  him  that  night.  He  went  his  way  to 
bed. 


It  was  past  one  o'clock.  The  final  rubber  was 
at  an  end ;  the  accounts  were  settled  at  the  card- 
table  ;  the  surgeon  had  strolled  into  the  billiard- 
room,  and  Smith  and  Jones  had  followed  him, 
when  Duncan  came  in,  at  last,  with  the  telegram 
in  his  hand. 

Blanche  turned  from  the  broad,  calm  autumn 
moonlight  which  had  drawn  her  to  the  window, 
and  looked  over  her  uncle's  shoulder  while  he 
opened  the  telegram. 

She  read  the  first  line — and  that  was  enough. 
The  whole  scaffolding  of  hope  built  round  that 
morsel  of  paper  fell  to  the  ground  in  an  instant. 
The  train  from  Kirkandrew  had  reached  Edin- 
burgh at  the  usual  time.  Every  passenger  in  it 
had  passed  under  the  eyes  of  the  police ;  and  no- 
thing had  been  seen  of  any  person  who  answered 
the  description  given  of  Anne ! 

Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  two  last  sentences 
in  the  telegram :  "  Inquiries  telegraphed  to  Fal- 
kirk.  If  with  any  result,  you  shall  know." 

' '  We  must  hope  for  the  best,  Blanche.  They 
evidently  suspect  her  of  having  got  out  at  the 
junction  of  the  two  railways  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  the  telegraph  the  slip.  There  is  no  help 
for  it.  Go  to  bed,  child — go  to  bed. " 

Blanche  kissed  her  uncle  in  silence  and  went 
away.  The  bright  young  face  was  sad  with  the 
first  hopeless  sorrow  which  the  old  man  had  yet 
seen  in  it.  His  niece's  parting  look  dwelt  pain- 
fully on  his  mind  when  he  was  up  in  his  room, 
with  the  faithful  Duncan  getting  him  ready  for 
his  bed. 

"This  is  a  b»d  business,  Duncan.  I  don't 
like  to  say  so  to  Miss  Lundie ;  but  I  greatly  fear 
the  governess  has  baffled  us. " 

"It  seems  likely,  Sir  Patrick.  The  poor 
young  lady  looks  quite  heart-broken  about  it. " 

"You  noticed  that  too,  did  you?  She  has 
lived  all  her  life,  you  see,  with  Miss  Silvester ; 
and  there  is  a  very  strong  attachment  between 
them.  I  am  uneasy  about  my  niece,  Duncan.  • 
I  am  afraid  this  disappointment  will  have  a  seri- 
ous effect  on  her. " 

"  She's  young,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  she's  young ;  but  the  yonng 
(when  they  are  good  for  any  thing)  have  warm 
hearts.  Winter  hasn't  stolen  on  them,  Duncan  ! 
And  they  feel  keenly. " 

"I  think  there's  reason  to  hope,  Sir,  that  Miss 
Lundie  may  get  over  it  more  easily  than  you 
suppose." 

"What  reason,  pray?" 

"A  person  in  my  position  can  hardly  venture 
to  speak  freely,  Sir,  on  a  delicate  matter  of  this 
kind. " 

Sir  Patrick's  temper  flashed  out,  half-serious-   • 
ly,  half-whimsically,  as  usual. 

"  Is  that  a  snap  at  Me,  you  old  dog  ?  If  I  am 
not  your  friend,  as  well  as  your  master,  who  is  ? 
Am  I  in  the  habit  of  keeping  any  of  my  harm- 
less fellow-creatures  at  a  distance  ?  I  despise  the 
cant  of  modern  Liberalism  ;  but  it's  not  the  less 
true  that  I  have,  all  my  life,  protested  against  the 
inhuman  separation  of  classes  in  England.  We 
are,  in  that  respect,  brag  as  we  may  of  our  na- 
tional virtue,  the  most  unchristian  people  in  the 
civilized  world." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Patrick — ' 

"God  help  me!  I'm  talking  politics  at  this 
time  of  night !  It's  your  fault,  Duncan.  What 
do  you  mean  by  casting  my  station  in  my  teeth, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


113 


because  I  can't  put  my  night-cap  on  comfortably 
till  you  have  brushed  my  hair  ?  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  get  up  and  brush  yours.  There !  there ! 
I'm  uneasy  about  my  niece — nervous  irritability, 
my  good  fellow,  that's  all.  Let's  hear  what  you 
have  to  say  about  Miss  Lundie.  And  go  on  with 
my  hair.  And  don't  be  a  humbug." 

"I  was  about  to  remind  you,  Sir  Patrick, 
that  Miss  Lundie  has  another  interest  in  her  life 
to  turn  to.  If  this  matter  of  Miss  Silvester  ends 
badly — and  I  own  it  begins  to  look  as  if  it  would 
— I  should  hum'  my  niece's  marriage,  Sir,  and 
see  if  that  wouldn't  console  her." 

Sir  Patrick  started  under  the  gentle  discipline 
of  the  hair-brush  in  Duncan's  hand. 

"That's  very  sensibly  put,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman. "  Duncan !  you  are,  what  I  call,  a 
clear-minded  man.  Well  worth  thinking  of,  old' 
Truepenny !  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
well  worth  thinking  of!" 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Duncan's  steady 
good  sense  had  struck  light,  under  the  form  of  a 
new  thought,  in  his  master's  mind.  But  never 
yet  had  he  wrought  such  mischief  as  the  mischief 
which  he  had  innocently  done  now.  He  had 
sent  Sir  Patrick  to  bed  with  the  fatal  idea  of  hast- 
ening the  marriage  of  Arnold  and  Blanche!* 

The  situation  of  affairs  at  Windygates — now 
that  Anne  had  apparently  obliterated  all  trace  of 
herself — was  becoming  serious.  The  one  chance 
on  which  the  discovery  of  Arnold's  position  de- 
pended, was  the  chance  that  accident  might  re- 
veal the  truth  in  the  lapse  of  time.  In  this  pos- 
ture of  circumstances,  Sir  Patrick  now  resolved 
• — if  nothing  happened  to  relieve  Blanche's  anx- 
iety in  the  course  of  the  week — to  advance  the 
celebration  of  the  marriage  from  the  end  of  the 
autumn  (as  originally  contemplated)  to  the  first 
fortnight  of  the  ensuing  month.  As  dates  then 
stood,  the  change  led  (so  far  as  free  scope  for  the 
development  of  accident  was  concerned)  to  this 
serious  result.  It  abridged  a  lapse  of  three 
months  into  an  interval  of  three  weeks. 

The  next  morning  came ;  and  Blanche  marked 
it  as  a  memorable  morning,  by  committing  an 
act  of  imprudence,  which  struck  away  one  more 
of  the  chances  of  discovery  that  had  existed,  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  the  Edinburgh  telegram  on 
the  previous  day. 

She  had  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  fevered  in 
mind  and  body ;  thinking,  hour  after  hour,  of 
nothing  but  Anne.  At  sunrise  she  could  endure 
it  no  longer.  Her  power  to  control  herself  was 
completely  exhausted ;  her  own  impulses  led  her 
as  they  pleased.  She  got  up,  determined  not  to 
let  Geoffrey  leave  the  house  without  risking  an 
effort  to  make  him  reveal  what  he  knew  about 
Anne.  It  was  nothing  less  than  downright  trea- 
son to  Sir  Patrick  to  act  on  her  own  responsibil- 
ity in  this  way.  She  knew  it  was  wrong;  she 
was  heartily  ashamed  of  herself  for  doing  it. 
But  the  'demon  that  possesses  women  with  a 
recklessness  all  their  own,  at  the  critical  mo- 
ments of  their  lives,  had  got  her — and  she  did  it. 

Geoffrey  had  arranged,  overnight,  to  break- 
fast early,  by  himself,  and  to  walk  the  ten  miles 
to  his  brother's  house ;  sending  a  servant  to  fetch 
his  luggage  later  in  the  day. 

He  had  got  on  his  hat ;  he  was  standing  in  the 
hall,  searching  his  pocket  for  his  second  self,  the 
pipe — when  Blanche  suddenly  appeared  from  the 


morning-room,  and  placed  herself  between  him 
and  the  house  door. 

"Up early— eh?"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I'm  off  to 
my  brother's." 

She  made  no  reply.  He  looked  at  Her  closer. 
The  girl's  eyes  were  trying  to  read  his  face,  with 
an  utter  carelessness  of  concealment,  whkh  for- 
bade (even  to  his  mind)  all  unworthy  interpreta- 
tion of  her  motive  for  .stopping  him  on  his  way 
out. 

"Any  commands  for  me?"  he  inquired. 

This  time  she  answered  him,  "  1  have  some- 
thing to  ask  you,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  graciously,  and  opened  his  tobacco- 
pouch.  He  was  fresh  and  strong  after  his  night's 
sleep — healthy  and  handsome  and  good-humored. 
The  house-maids  had  had  a  peep  at  him  that 
morning,  and  had  wished — lifce  Desdemona,  with 
a  difference — that  "  Heaven  had  made  all  three 
of  them  such  a  man." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it?" 

She  put  her  question,  without  a  single  word 
of  preface — purposely  to  surprise  him. 

"Mr.  Delamayn,"  she  said,  "do  you  know 
where  Anne  Silvester  is  this  morning?" 

He  was  filling  his  pipe  as  she  spoke,  and  he 
dropped  some  of  the  tobacco  on  the  floor.  In- 
stead of  answering  before  he  picked  up  the  to- 
bacco he  answered  after — in  surly  self-possession, 
and  in  one  word — "No." 

"Do  you  know  nothing  about  her?" 

He  devoted  himself  doggedly  to  the  filling  of 
his  pipe.  "Nothing." 

"  On  your  word  of  honor,  as  a  gentleman  ?" 

"  On  my  word  of  honor,  as  a  gentleman." 

He  put  back  his  tobacco-pouch  in  his  pocket. 
His  handsome  face  was  as  hard  as  stone.  His 
clear  blue  eyes  defied  all  the  girls  in  England  put 
together  to  see  into  his  mind.  ' '  Have  you  done, 
Miss  Lundie  ?"  he  asked,  suddenly  changing  to  a 
bantering  politeness  of  tone  and  manner. 

Blanche  saw  that  it  was  hopeless — saw  that 
she  had  compromised  her  own  interests  by  her 
own  headlong  act.  Sir  Patrick's  warning  words 
came  back  reproachfully  to  her  now  when  it  was 
too  late.  "We  commit  a  serious  mistake  if  we 
put  him  on  his  guard  at  starting. " 

There  was  but  one  course  to  take  now.  ' '  Yes, " 
she  said.  "  I  have  done. " 

"My  turn  now,"  rejoined  Geoffrey.  "You 
want  to  know  where  Miss  Silvester  is.  Why 
do  you  ask  Me?" 

Blanche  did  all  that  could  be  done  toward  re- 
pairing the  error  that  she  had  committed.  She 
kept  Geoffrey  as  far  away  as  Geoffrey  had  kept 
her  from  the  truth. 

"I  happen  to  know,"  she  replied,  "that  Miss 
Silvester  left  the  place  at  which  she  had  been 
staying  about  the  time  when  you  went  out  walk- 
ing yesterday.  And  I  thought  yqu  might  have 
seen  her." 

"  Oh  ?  That's  the  reason— is  it  ?"  said  Geof- 
frey, with  a  smite. 

The  smile  stung  Blanche's  sensitive  temper  to 
the  quick.  She  made  a  final  effort  to  control 
herself,  before  her  indignation  got  the  better  of 
her. 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,  Mr.  Delamayn.'' 
With  that  reply  she  turned  her  back  on  him, 
and  closed  the  door  of  the  morning-room  be- 
tween them. 

Geoffrey  descended  the  house  steps  and  lit  his 


114 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"DO   YOU   KNOW   WHERE   ANNE    SILVESTER    18   THIS   MORNING?' 


pipe.  He  was  not  at  the  slightest  loss,  on  this 
occasion,  to  account  for  what  had  happened. 
He  assumed  at  once  that  Arnold  had  taken  a 
mean  revenge  on  him  after  his  conduct  of  the 
day  before,  and  had  told  the  whole  secret  of  his 
errand  at  Craig  Fernie  to  Blanche.  The  thing 
would  get  next,  no  doubt,  to  Sir  Patrick's  ears  ; 
and  Sir  Patrick  would  thereupon  be  probably  the 
first  person  who  revealed  to  Arnold  the  position 
in  which  he  had  placed  himself  with  Anne.  All 
right !  Sir  Patrick  would  be  an  excellent  witness 
to  appeal  to,  when  the  scandal  broke  out,  and 
when  the  time  came  for  repudiating  Anne's 
claim  on  him  as  the  barefaced  imposture  of  a 
woman  who  was  married  already  to  another 
man.  He  puffed  away  unconcernedly  at  his 
pipe,  and  started,  at  his  swinging,  steady  pace, 
for  his  brother's  house. 

Blanche  remained  alone  in  the  morning-room. 
The  prospect  of  getting  at  the  truth,  by  means 
of  what  Geoffrey  might  say  on  the  next  occasion 
when  he  consulted  Sir  Patrick,  was  a  prospect 
that  she  herself  had  closed  from  that  moment. 
She  sat  down  in  despair  by  the  window.  It  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  little  side-terrace  which  had 
been  Anne's  favorite  walk  at  Windygates.  With 
weary  eyes  and  aching  heart  the  poor  child  look- 
ed at  the  familiar  place ;  and  a»ked  herself,  with 
the  bitter  repentance  that  comes  too  late,  if  she 
had  destroyed  the  last  chance  of  finding  Anne ! 

She  sat  passively  at  the  window,  while  the 
hours  of  the  morning  wore  on,  until  the  post- 
man came.  Before  the  servant  could  take  the 
letter-bag  she  was  in  the  hall  to  receive  it.  Was 
it  possible  to  hope  that  the  bag  had  brought  tid- 
ings of  Anne  ?  She  sorted  the  letters ;  and  light- 
ed suddenly  on  a  letter  to  herself.  It  bore  the 


Kirkandrew  post-mark,  and  it  was  addressed  to 
her  in  Anne's  handwriting. 

She  tore  the  letter  open,  and  read  these  lines : 
1  "  I  have  left  you  forever,  Blanche.  God  bless 
and  reward  you !  God  make  you  a  happy  wo- 
man in  all  your  life  to  come !  Cruel  as  you  will 
think  me,  love,  I  have  never  been  so  truly  your 
sister  as  I  am  now.  I  can  only  tell  you  thie — I 
can  never  tell  you  more.  Forgive  me,  and  for- 
get me.  Our  lives  are  parted  lives  from  this 
day." 

Going  down  to  breakfast  about  his  usual  hour, 
Sir  Patrick  missed  Blanche,  whom  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  see  waiting  for  him  at  the  table  at  that 
time.  The  room  was  empty ;  the  other  members 
of  the  household  having  all  finished  their  morning 
meal.  Sir  Patrick  disliked  breakfasting  alone. 
He  sent  Duncan  with  a  message,  to  be  given  to 
Blanche's  maid. 

The  maid  appeared  in  due  time.  Miss  Lun- 
die  was  unable  to  leave  her  room.  She  sent  a 
letter  to  her  uncle,  with  her  love — and  begged  he 
would  read  it. 

Sir  Patrick  opened  the  letter  and  saw  what 
Anne  had  written  to  Blanche. 

He  waited  a  little,  reflecting,  with  evident  pain 
and  anxiety,  on  what  he  had  read — then  opened 
his  own  letters,  and  hurriedly  looked  at  the  sig- 
natures. There  was  nothing  for  him  from  his 
friend,  the  sheriff,  at  Edinburgh,  and  no  com- 
munication from  the  railway,  in  the  shape  of  a 
telegram.  He  had  decided,  overnight,  on  wait- 
ing till  the  end  of  the  week  before  he  interfered 
in  the  matter  of  Blanche's  marriage.  The  events 
of  the  morning  determined  him  on  not  waiting 
another  day.  Duncan  returned  to  the  breakfast- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


115 


room  to  pour  out  his  master's  coffee.  Sir  Pat- 
rick sent  him  away  again  with  a  second  message. 

"Do  you  know  where  Lady  Lundie  is,  Dun- 
can ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Patrick." 

"My  compliments  to  her  ladyship.  If  she  is 
not  otherwise  engaged,  I  shall  be  glad  to  speak 
to  her  privately  in  an  hour's  time." 


CHAPTEK  THE  TWENTY-SIXTH. 


SIR  PATRICK  made  a  had  breakfast.  Blanche's 
absence  fretted  him,  and  Anne  Silvester's  letter 
puzzled  him. 

He  read  it, short  as  it  was,  a  second  time,  and 
a  third.  If  it  meant  any  thing,  it  meant  that  the 
motive  at  the  bottom  of  Anne's  flight  was  to  ac- 
complish the  sacrifice  of  herself  to  the  happiness 
of  Blanche.  She  had  parted  for  life  from  his 
niece  for  his  niece's  sake !  What  did  this  mean  ? 
And  how  was  it  to  be  reconciled  with  Anne's 
position — as  described  to  him  by  Mrs.  Inchbare 
during  his  visit  to  Craig  Fernie  ? 

All  Sir  Patrick's  ingenuity,  and  all  Sir  Patrick's 
experience,  failed  to  find  so  much  as  the  shadow 
of  an  answer  to  that  question. 

While  he  was  still  pondering  over  the  letter, 
Arnold  and  the  surgeon  entered  the  breakfast- 
room  together. 

"Have  you  heard  about  Blanche?"  asked 
Arnold,  excitedly.  "She  is  in  no  danger,  Sir 
Patrick — the  worst  of  it  is  over  now." 

The  surgeon  interposed  before  Sir  Patrick 
could  appeal  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Brinkworth's  interest  in  the  young  lady 
a  little  exaggerates  the  state  of  the  case,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  seen  her,  at  Lady  Lundie's  request ;  and 
I  can  assure  you  that  there  is  not  the  slightest 
reason  for  any  present  alarm.  Miss  Lundie  has 
had  a  nervous  attack,  which  has  yielded  to  the 
simplest  domestic  remedies.  The  only  anxiety 
you  need  feel  is  connected  with  the  management 
of  her  in  the  future.  She  is  suffering  from  some 
mental  distress,  which  it  is  not  for  me,  but  for  her 
friends,  to  alleviate  and  remove.  If  you  can 
turn  her  thoughts  from  the  painful  subject — 
whatever  it  may  be — on  which  they  are  dwell- 
ing now,  you  will  do  all  that  needs  to  be  done." 
He  took  up  a  newspaper  from  the  table,  and 
strolled  out  into  the  garden,  leaving  Sir  Patrick 
and  Arnold  together. 

"You  heard  that?"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

"Is  he  right,  do  you  think?"  asked  Ar- 
nold. 

"Right?  Do  you  suppose  a  man  gets  his 
reputation  by  making  mistakes  ?  You're  one  of 
the  new  generation,  Master  Arnold.  You  can 
all  of  you  stare  at  a  famous  man ;  but  you  haven't 
an  atom  of  respect  for  his  fame.  If  Shakspeare 
came  to  life  again,  and  talked  of  play-writing, 
the  first  pretentious  nobody  who  sat  opposite  at 
dinner  would  differ  with  him  as  composedly  as 
he  might  differ  with  you  and  me.  Veneration 
is  dead  among  us ;  the  present  age  has  buried  it, 
without  a  stone  to  mark  the  place.  So  much 
for  that !  Let's  get  back  to  Blanche.  I  sup- 
pose you  can  guess  what  the  painful  subject  is 
that's  dwelling  on  her  -mind  ?  Miss  Silvester 
has  baffled  me,  and  baffled  the  Edinburgh  police. 


Blanche  discovered  that  we  had  failed  last  night; 
and  Blanche  .received  that  letter  this  morning." 

He  pushed  Anne's  letter  across  the  breakfast- 
table. 

Arnold  read  it,  and  handed  it  back  without  a 
word.  Viewed  by  the  new  light  in  which  he 
saw  Geoffrey's  character  after  the  quarrel  on  the 
heath,  the  letter  conveyed  but  one  conclusion  to 
his  mind.  Geoffrey  had  deserted  her. 

"Well ?"  said  Sir  Patrick.  " Do  you  under- 
stand what  it  means  ?:> 

•"I  understand  Blanche's  wretchedness  when 
she  read  it." 

He  said  no  more  than  that.  It  was  plain  that 
no  information  which  he  could  afford — even  if 
he  had  considered  himself  at  liberty  to  give  it — 
would  b'e  of  the  slightest  use  in  assisting  Sir  Pat- 
rick to  trace  Miss  Silvester,  under  present  cir- 
cumstances. There  was — unhappily — no  tempt- 
ation to  induce  him  to  break  the  honorable  si- 
lence which  he  had  maintained  thus  far.  And 
— more  unfortunately  still — assuming  the  tempt- 
ation to  present  itself,  Arnold's  capacity  to  re- 
sist it  had  never  been  so  strong  a  capacity  as  it 
was  now. 

To  the  two  powerful  motives  which  had  hith- 
erto tied  his  tongue — respect  for  Anne's  reputa- 
tion, and  reluctance  to  reveal  to  Blanche  the  de- 
ception which  he  had  been  compelled  to  practice 
on  her  at  the  inn — to  these  two  motives  there 
was  now  added  a  third.  The  meanness  of  be- 
traying the  confidence  which  Geoffrey  had  re- 
posed in  him  would  be  doubled  meanness  if  he 
proved  false  fo  his  trust  after  Geoffrey  had  per- 
sonally insulted  him.  The  paltry  revenge  which 
that  false  friend  had  unhesitatingly  suspected  him 
of  taking  was  a  revenge  of  which  Arnold's  na- 
ture was  simply  incapable.  Never  had  his  lips 
been  more  effectually  sealed  than  at  this  moment 
— when  his  whole  future  depended  on  Sir  Pat- 
rick's discovering  the  part  that  he  had  played  in 
past  events  at  Craig  Fernie. 

"  Yes !  yes !"  resumed  Sir  Patrick,  impatient- 
ly. "Blanche's  distress  is  intelligible  enough. 
But  here  is  my  niece  apparently  answerable  for 
this  unhappy  woman's  disappearance.  Can  you 
explain  what  my  niece  has  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  I !  Blanche  herself  is  completely  mystified. 
How  should  I  know  ?" 

Answering  in  those  terms,  he  spoke  with  perfect 
sincerity.  Anne's  vague  distrust  of  the  position 
in  which  they  had  innocently  placed  themselves 
at  the  inn  had  produced  no  corresponding  effect 
on  Arnold  at  the  time.  He  had  not  regarded  it; 
he  had  not  even  understood  it.  As  a  necessary 
result,  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  motive 
under  which  Anne  was  acting  existed  in  his 
mind  now. 

Sir  Patrick  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket-book, 
and  abandoned  all  further  attempt  at  interpret- 
ing the  meaning  of  it  in  despair. 

"Enough,  and  more  than  enough,  of  groping 
in  the  dark,"  he  said.  "One  point  is  clear  to 
me  after  what  has  happened  up  stairs  this  morn- 
ing. We  must  accept  the  position  in  which  Miss 
Silvester  has  placed  us.  I  shall  give  up  all  fur- 
ther effort  to  trace  her  from  this  moment." 

"  Surely  that  will  be  a  dreadful  disappoint- 
ment to  Blanche,  Sir  Patrick?" 

"  I  don't  deny  it.    We  must  face  that  result." 

' '  If  you  are  sure  there  is  nothing  else  to  be 
done,  I  suppose  we  must." 


116 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


"I  am  not  sure  of  any  tiling  of  the  sort,  Mas- 
ter Arnold !  There  are  two  chances  still  left  of 
throwing  light  on  this  matter,  which  are  both 
of  them  independent  of  any  thing  that  Miss  Sil- 
vester can  do  to  keep  it  in  the  dark. " 

"  Then  why  not  try  them,  Sir  ?  It  seems  hard 
to  drop  Miss  Silvester  when  she  is  in  trouble. " 

"We  can't  help  her  against  her  own  will," 
rejoined  Sir  Patrick.  "And  we  can't  run  the 
risk,  after  that  nervous  attack  this  morning,  of 
subjecting  Blanche  to  any  further  suspense.  I 
have  thought  of  my  niece's  interests  throughout 
this  business;  and  if  I  now  change  my  mind, 
and  decline  to  agitate  her  by  more  experiments, 
ending  (quite  possibly)  in  more  failures,  it  is  be- 
cause I  am  thinking  of  her  interests  still.  I  have 
no  other  motive.  However  numerous  my  weak- 
nesses may  be,  ambition  to  distinguish  myself 
as  a  detective  policeman  is  not  one  of  them. 
The  case,  from  the  police  point  of  view,  is  by 
no  means  a  lost  case.  I  drop  it,  nevertheless, 
for  Blanche's  sake.  Instead  of  encouraging  her 
thoughts  to  dwell  on  this  melancholy  business, 
we  must  apply  the  remedy  suggested  by  our  med- 
ical friend. " 

"How  is  that  to  be  done?"  asked  Arnold. 

The  sly  twist  of  humor  began  to  show  itself 
in  Sir  Patrick's  face. 

"Has  she  nothing  to  think  of  in  the  future, 
which  is  a  pleasauter  subject  of  reflection  than 
the  loss  of  her  friend?"  he  asked.  "  You  are 
interested,  my  young  gentleman,  in  the  remedy 
'  that  is  to  cure  Blanche.  You  are  one  of  the 
drugs  in  the  moral  prescription.  Can  you  guess 
what  it  is  ?" 

Arnold  started  to  his  feet,  and  brightened  into 
a  new  being. 

"Perhaps  you  object  to  be  hurried?"  said  Sir 
Patrick. 

"Object!  If  Blanche  will  only  consent,  I'll 
take  her  to  church  as  soon  as  she  comes  down 
stairs!" 

"  Thank  you !"  said  Sir  Patrick,  dryly.  "  Mr. 
Arnold  Brinkworth,  may  you  always  be  as  ready 
to  take  Time  by  the  forelock  as  you  are  now ! 
Sit  down  again  ;  and  don't  talk  nonsense.  It  is 
just  possible — if  Blanche  consents  (as  you  say), 
and  if  we  can  hurry  the  lawyers — that  you  may 
be  married  in  three  weeks'  or  a  month's  time." 

' '  What  have  the  lawyers  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  My  good  fellow,  this  is  not  a  marriage  in  a 
novel!  This  is  the  most  unromantic  affair  of 
the  sort  that  ever  happened.  Here  are  a  young 
gentleman  and  a  young  lady,  both  rich  people ; 
both  well  matched  in  birth  and  character;  one 
of  age,  and  the  other  marrying  with  the  full  con- 
sent and  approval  of  her  guardian.  What  is  the 
consequence  of  this  purely  prosaic  state  of  things  ? 
Lawyers  and  settlements,  of  course!" 

"Come  into  the  library,  Sir  Patrick;  and  111 
soon  settle  the  settlements !  A  bit  of  paper,  and 
a  dip  of  ink.  '  I  hereby  give  every  blessed  far- 
thing I  have  got  in  the  world  to  my  dear  Blanche. ' 
Sign  that;  stick  a  wafer  on  at  the  side;  clap 
your  finger  on  the  wafer ;  '  I  deliver  this  as  my 
act  and  deed ;'  and  there  it  is — done !" 

"Is  it,  really?  You  are  a  born  legislator. 
You  create  and  codify  your  own  system  all  in 
a  breath.  Moses-Justinian-Mahomet,  give  me 
your  arm !  There  is  one  atom  of  sense  in  what 
you  have  just  said.  '  Come  into  the  library' 
is  a  suggestion  worth  attending  to.  Do  you 


happen,  among  your  other  superfluities,  to  have 
such  a  thing  as  a  lawyer  about  you  ?" 

1 '  I  have  got  two.  One  in  London,  and  one 
in  Edinburgh." 

"We  will  take  the  nearest  of  the  two,  be- 
cause we  are  in  a  hurry.  Who  is  the  Edinburgh 
lawyer  ?  Pringle  of  Pitt  Street  ?  Couldn't  be 
a  better  man.  Come  and  write  to  him.  You 
have  given  me  your  .abstract  of  a  marriage  set- 
tlement with  the  brevity  of  an  ancient  Roman. 
I  scorn  to  be  outdone  by  an  amateur  lawyer. 
Here  is  my  abstract:  You  are  just  and  generous 
to  Blanche ;  Blanche  is  just  and  generous  to  you ; 
and  you  both  combine  to  be  just  and  generous 
together  to  your  children.  There,  is  a  model 
settlement!  and  there  are  your  instructions  to 
Pringle  of  Pitt  Street !  Can  you  do  it  by  your- 
self? No;  of  course  you  can't.  Now  don't  be 
slovenly-minded !  See  the  points  in  their  order 
as  they  come.  You  are  going  to  be  married; 
you  state  to  whom ;  you  add  that  I  am  the  lady's 
guardian ;  you  give  the  name  and  address  of  my 
lawyer  in  Edinburgh ;  you  write  your  instruc- 
tions plainly  in  the  fewest  words,  and  leave  de- 
tails to  your  legal  adviser ;  you  refer  the  lawyers 
to  each  other ;  you  request  that  the  draft  settle- 
ments be  prepared  as  speedily  as  possible ;  and 
you  give  your  address  at  this  house.  There  are 
the  heads.  Can't  you  do  it  now  ?  Oh,  the  ris- 
ing generation !  Oh,  the  progress  we  are  mak- 
ing in  these  enlightened  modern  times !  There ! 
there!  you  can  marry  Blanche,  and  make  her 
happy,  and  increase  the  population  —  and  all 
without  knowing  how  to  write  the  English  lan- 
guage. One  can  only  say  with  the  learned  Be- 
voriskius,  looking  out  of  his  window  at  the  illim- 
itable loves  of  the  sparrows,  '  How  merciful  is 
Heaven  to  its  creatures !'  Take  up  the  pen. 
I'll  dictate !  I'll  dictate ! " 

Sir  Patrick  read  the  letter  over,  approved  of 
it,  and  saw  it  safe  in  the  box  for  the  post.  This 
done,  he  peremptorily  forbade  Arnold  to  speak 
to  his  niece  on  the  subject  of  the  marriage  with- 
out his  express  permission.  "  There's  somebody 
else's  consent  to  be  got,"  he  said,  "besides 
Blanche's  consent  and  mine." 

"Lady  Lundie?" 

"Lady  Lundie.  Strictly  speaking,  I  am  the 
only  authority.  But  my  sister-in-law  is  Blanche's 
step-mother,  and  she  is  appointed  guardian  in  the 
event  of  my  death.  She  has  a  right  to  be  con- 
sulted— in  courtesy,  if  not  in  law.  Would  you 
like  to-do  it?" 

Arnold's  face  fell.  He  looked  at  Sir  Patrick 
in  silent  dismay. 

"  WhaU  you  can't  even  speak  to  such  a  per- 
fectly pliable  person  as  Lady  Lundie  ?  You  may 
have  been  a  very  useful  fellow  at  sea.  A  more 
helpless  young  man  I  never  met  with  on  shore. 
Get  out  with  you  into  the  garden  among  the 
other  sparrows!  Somebody  must  confront  her 
ladyship.  And  if  you  won't — I  must." 

He  pushed  Arnold  out  of  the  library,  and  ap- 
plied meditatively  to  the  knob  of  his  cane.  His 
gayety  disappeared,  now  that  he  was  alone.  His 
experience  of  Lady  Lundie's  character  told  him 
that,  in  attempting  to  win  her  approval  to  any 
scheme  for  hurrying  Blanche's  marriage,  he  was 
undertaking  no  easy  task.  "I  suppose, " mused 
Sir  Patrick,  thinking  of  his  late  brother — "I 
suppose  poor  Tom  had  some  way  of  managing 
her.  How  did  he  do  it,  I  wonder  ?  If  she  had 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


117 


been  the  wife  of  a  bricklayer,  she  is  the  sort  of 
woman  who  would  have  been  kept  in  perfect  or- 
der by  a  vigorous  and  regular  application  of  her 
'  husband's  fist.  But  Tom  wasn't  a  bricklayer. 
I  wonder  how  Tom  did  it?"  After  a  little  hard 
thinking  on  this  point  Sir  Patrick  gave  up  the 
problem  as  beyond  human  solution.  "  It  must 
be  done,"  he  concluded.  "And  my  own  mo- 
ther-wit must  help  me  to  do  it." 

In  that  resigned  frame  of  mind  he  hobbled  out 
of  the  library,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Lady 
Lundie's  boudoir. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

OUTWITTED. 

SIR  PATRICK  found  his  sister-in-law  immersed 
in  domestic  business.  Her  ladyship's  correspond- 
ence and  visiting  list ;  her  ladyship's  household 
bills  and  ledgers ;  her  ladyship's  Diary  and  Mem- 
orandum-book (bound  in  scarlet  morocco) ;  her 
ladyship's  desk,  envelope-case,  match-box,  and 
taper  candlestick  (all  in  ebony  and  silver) ;  her 
ladyship  herself,  presiding  over  her  responsibili- 
ties, and  wielding  her  materials,  equal  to  any 
calls  of  emergency,  beautifully  dressed  in  correct 
morning  costume,  blessed  with  perfect  health 
both  of  the  secretions  and  the  principles ;  abso- 
lutely void  of  vice,  and  formidably  full  of  virtue, 
presented,  to  eveiy  properly-constituted  mind, 
the  most  imposing  spectacle  known  to  humanity 
— the  British  Matron  on  her  throne,  asking  the 
world  in  general,  When  will  you  produce  the 
like  of  Me  ? 

"I  am  afraid  I  disturb  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"  I  am  a  perfectly  idle  person.  Shall  I  look  in 
a  little  later?" 

Lady  Lundie  put  her  hand  to  her  head,  and 
smiled  faintly. 

' '  A  little  pressure  here,  Sir  Patrick.  Pray  sit 
down.  •  Duty  finds  me  earnest ; .  Duty  finds  me 
cheerful;  Duty  finds  me  accessible.  From  a 
poor,  weak  woman,  Duty  must  expect  no  more. 
Now  what  is  it?"  (Her  ladyship  consulted  her 
scarlet  memorandum -book.)  "I  have  got  it 
here,  under  its  proper  head,  distinguished  by 
initial  letters.  P. — the>  poor.  No.  H.M. — 
heathen  missions.  No.  V.T.A. — Visitors  to 
arrive.  No.  P. I. P. — Here  it  is :  private  in- 
terview with  Patrick.  Will  you  forgive  me  the 
little  harmless  familiarity  of  omitting  your  title  ? 
Thank  you !  You  are  always  so  good.  I  am 
quite  at  your  service  when  you  like  to  begin. 
If  it's  any  thing  painful,  pray  don't  hesitate.  I 
am  quite  prepared." 

With  that  intimation-  her  ladyship  threw  her- 
self back  in  her  chair,  with  her  elbows  on  the 
arms,  and  her  fingers  joined  at  the  tips,  as  if  she 
was  receiving  a  deputation.  "  Yes  ?"  she  said, 
interrogatively.  Sir  Patrick  paid  a  private  trib- 
ute of  pity  to  his  late  brother's  memory,  and  en- 
tered on  his  business. 

'•We  won't  call  it  a  painful  matter,"  he  be- 
gan. "  Let  us  say  it's  a  matter  of  domestic  anx- 
iety. B^inche — " 

Lady  Lundie  emitted  a  faint  scream,  and  put 
her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

' '  Must  you  ?"  cried  her  ladyship,  in  a  tone  of 
touching  remonstrance.  "  Oh,  Sir  Patrick,  must 
you?" 


"Yes.     I  must." 

Lady  Lundie's  magnificent  eyes  looked  up  at 
that  hidden  court  of  human  appeal  which  is 
lodged  in  the  ceiling.  The  hidden  court  looked 
down  at  Lady  Lundie,  and  saw — Duty  advertis- 
ing itself  in  the  largest  capital  letters. 

"  Go  on,  Sir  Patrick.  The  motto  of  woman 
is  Self-sacrifice.  You  sha'n't  see  how  you  dis- 
tress me.  Go  on." 

Sir  Patrick  went  on  impenetrably — without 
betraying  the  slightest  expression  of  sympathy 
or  surprise. 

"I  was  about  to  refer  to  the  nervous  attack 
from  which  Blanche  has  suffered  this  morning," 
he  said.  "May  I  ask  whether  you  ha<e  been 
informed  of  the  cause  to  which  the  attack  is  at- 
tributable ?" 

"There!"  exclaimed  Lady  Lundie,  with  a 
sudden  bound  in  her  chair,  and  a  sudden  devel- 
opment of  vocal  power  to  correspond.  "The 
one  thing  I  shrank  from  speaking  of!  the  cruel, 
cruel,  cruel  behavior  I  was  prepared  to  pass  over! 
And  Sir  Patrick  hints  on  it !  Innocently — don't 
let  me  do  an  injustice — innocently  hints  on  it!" 

"  Hints  on  what,  my  dear  Madam?" 

"Blanche's  conduct  to  me  this  morning. 
Blanche's  heartless  secrecy.  Blanche's  nnduti- 
ful  silence.  I  repeat  the  words :  Heartless  se- 
crecy. Undutiful  silence." 

"Allow  me  for  one  moment,  Lady  Lundie — " 

"Allow  me,  Sir  Patrick !  Heaven  knows  how 
unwilling  I  am  to  speak  of  it.  Heaven  knows 
that  not  a  word  of  reference  to  it  escaped  my  lips. 
But  you  leave  me  no  choice  now.  As  mistress 
of  the  household,  as  a  Christian  woman,  as  the 
widow  of  your  dear  brother,  as  a  mother  to  this 
misguided  girl,  I  must  state  the  facts.  I  know 
you  mean  well ;  I  know  you  wish  to  spare  me. 
Quite  useless!  I  must  state  the  facts." 

Sir  Patrick  bowed,  and  submitted.  (If  he  had 
only  been  a  bricklayer !  and  if  Lady  Lundie  had 
not  been,  what  her  ladyship  unquestionably  was, 
the  strongest  person  of  the  two !) 

"Permit  me  to  draw  a  veil,  for  your  sake," 
said  Lady  Lundie,  "  over  the  horrors — I  can  not, 
with  the  best  wish  to  spare  you,  conscientiously 
call  them  by  any  o^her  name — the  horrors  that 
took  place  up  stairs.  The  moment  I  heard  that 
Blanche  was  ill  I  was  at  my  post.  Duty  will  al- 
ways find  me  ready,  Sir  Patrick,  to  my  dying 
day.  Shocking  as  the  whole  thing  was,  I  pre- 
sided calmly  over  the  screams  and  sobs  of  my 
step-daughter.  I  closed  my  ears  to  the  profane 
violence  of  her  language.  I  set  the  neces^- 
example,  as  an  English  gentlewoman  at  the  head 
of  her  household.  It  was  only  when  I  distinctly 
heard  the  name  of  a  person,  never  to  be  mentioned 
again  in  my  family  circle,  issue  (if  I  may  use  the 
expression)  from  Blanche's  lips  that  I  began  to 
be  really  alarmed.  I  said  to  my"  maid :  '  Hop- 
kins, this  is  not  Hysteria.  This  is  a  possession,  i 
of  the  devil.  Fetch  the  chloroform.'  " 

Chloroform,  applied  in  the  capacity  of  an  ex- 
orcism, was  entirely  new  to  Sir  Patrick.  He 
preserved  his  gravity  with  considerable  difficulty. 
Lady  Lundie  went  on : 

''Hopkins  is  an  excellent  person — but  Hop- 
kins has  a  tongue.  She  met  our  distinguished 
medical  guest  in  the  corridor,  and  told  him.  He 
was  so  good  as  to  come  to  the  door.  I  was 
shocked  to  trouble  him  to  act  in  his  professional 
capacity  while  he  was  a  visitor,  an  honored  visit- 


118 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


or,  in  my  house.  Besides,  I  considered  it  more 
a  case  for  a  clergyman  than  for  a  medical  man. 
However,  there  was  no  help  for  it  after  Hopkins's 
tongue.  I  requested  our  eminent  friend  to  favor 
us  with — I  think  the  exact  scientific  term  is — a 
Prognosis.  He  took  the  purely  material  view 
which  was  only  to  be  expected  from  a  person  in 
his  profession.  He  prognosed — am  I  right  ? 
Did  he  prognose  ?  or  did  he  diagnose  ?  A  hab- 
it of  speaking  correctly  is  so  important,  Sir  Pat- 
rick! and  I  should  be  so  grieved  to  mislead 
you !" 

"Never  mind,  Lady  Lundie!  I  have  heard 
the  medical  report.  Don't  trouble  .yourself  to 
repeat  it. " 

"Don't  trouble  myself  to  repeat  it?"  echoed 
Lady  Lundie — with  her  dignity  up  in  arms  at  the 
bare  prospect  of  finding  her  remarks  abridged. 
"Ah,  Sir  Patrick'!  that  little  constitutional  im- 
patience of  yours! — Oh,  dear  me!  how  often 
you  must  have  given  way  to  it,  and  how  often 
you  must  have  regretted  it,  in  your  time !" 

' '  My  dear  lady !  if  you  wish  to  repeat  the  re- 
port, why  not  say  so,  in  plain  words  ?  Don't  let 
me  hurry  you.  Let  us  have  thfc  prognosis,  by 
all  means." 

Lady  Lundie  shook  her  head  compassionately, 
and  smiled  with  angelic  sadness.  "  Our  little 
besetting  .sins !"  she  said.  "  What  slaves  we  are 
to  our  little  besetting  sins !  Take  a  turn  in  the 
room— do!" 

Any  ordinary  man  would  have  lost  his  temper. 
But  the  law  (as  Sir  Patrick  had  told  his  niece) 
has  a  special  temper  of  its  own.  Without  ex- 
hibiting the  smallest  irritation,  Sir  Patrick  dex- 
trously  applied  his  sister-in-law's  blister  to  his 
sister-in-law  herself. 

"  What  an  eye  you  have !"  he  said.  "  I  was 
impatient.  I  am  impatient.  I  am  dying  to  know 
what  Blanche  said  to  you  when  she  got  better  ?" 

The  British  Matron  froze  up  into  a  matron  of 
stone  on  the  spot. 

"Nothing!''  answered  her  ladyship,  with  a 
vicious  snap  of  her  teeth,  as  if  she  had  tried  to 
bite  the  word  before  it  escaped  her. 

"Nothing!'"  exclaimed  Sir  Patrick. 

"Nothing,''  repeated  Lady  Lundie,  with  her 
most  formidable  emphasis  of  look  and  tone.  "  I 
applied  all  the  remedies  with  my  own  hands ;  I 
cut  her  laces  with  my  own  scissors  ;  I  complete- 
ly wetted  her  head  through  with  cold  water;  I 
remained  with  her  until  she  was  quite  exhaust- 
ed ;  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  folded  her  to 
my  bosom ;  I  sent  every  body  out  of  the  room ; 
I  said,  'Dear  child,  confide  in  me.'  And  how 
were  my  advances  —  my  motherly  advances — 
met?  I  have  already  told  you.  By  heartless 
secrecy.  By  undutiful  silence." 

Sir  Patrick  pressed  the  blister  a  little  closer  to 
the  skin.  "She  was  probably  afraid  to  speak," 
he  said. 

"  Afraid  ?  Oh !"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  distrust- 
ing the  evidence  of  her  own  senses.  "  You  can't 
have  said  that  ?  I  have  evidently  misapprehend- 
ed you.  You  didn't  really  say,  afraid  ?" 

"  I  said  she  was  probably  afraid — " 

"Stop!  I  can't  be  told  to  my  face  that  I 
have  failed  to  do  my  duty  by  Blanche.  No,  Sir 
Patrick !  I  can  bear  a  great  deal ;  but  I  can't  bear 
that.  After  having  been  more  than  a  mother 
to  your  dear  brother's  child ;  after  having  been 
an  elder  sister  to  Blanche ;  after  having  toiled — 


I  say  toiled,  Sir  Patrick ! — to  cultivate  her  intel- 
ligence (with  the  sweet  lines  of  the  poet  ever 
present  to  my  memory :  '  Delightful  task  to  rear 
the  tender  mind,  and  teach  the  young  idea  how 
to  shoot ! ') ;  after  having  done  all  I  have  done — 
a  place  in  the  carriage  only  yesterday,  and  a 
visit  to  the  most  interesting  relic  of  feudal  times 
in  Perthshire — after  having  sacrificed  all  I  have 
sacrificed,  to  be  told  that  1  have  behaved  in  such 
a  manner  to  Blanche  as  to  frighten  her  when  I 
ask  her  to  confide  in  me,  is  a  little  too  cruel.  I 
have  a  sensitive — an  unduly  sensitive  nature, 
dear  Sir  Patrick.  Forgive  me  for  wincing  when 
I  am  wounded.  Forgive  me  for  feeling  it  when 
the  wound  is  dealt  me  by  a  person  whom  I  re- 
vere. " 

Her  ladyship  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Any  other  man  would  have  taken  off  the  blister. 
Sir  Patrick  pressed  it  harder  than  ever. 

"You  quite  mistake  me,"  he  replied.  "I 
meant  that  Blanche  was  afraid  to  tell  you  the 
true  cause  of  her  illness.  The  true  cause  is  anx- 
iety about  Miss  Silvester."  • 

Lady  Lundie  emitted  another  scream — a  loud 
scream  this  time — and  closed  her  eyes  in  horror. 

"  I  can  run  out  of  the  house,"  cried  her  lady- 
ship, wildly.  "I  can  fly  to  the  uttermost  cor- 
ners of  the  earth ;  but  I  can  not  hear  that  per- 
son's name  mentioned !  No,  Sir  Patrick !  not 
in  my  presence !  not  in  my  room !  not  while  I 
am  mistress  at  Windygates  House!" 

' '  I  am  sorry  to  say  any  thing  that  is  disagree- 
able to  you,  Lady  Lundie.  But  the  nature  of  my 
errand  here  obliges  me  to  touch — as  lightly  as 
possible — on  something  which  has  happened  in 
your  house  without  your  knowledge." 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  opened  her  eyes,  and 
became  the  picture  of  attention.  A  casual  ob- 
server might  have  supposed  her  ladyship  to  be 
not  wholly  inaccessible  to  the  vulgar  emotion  of 
curiosity. 

"A  visitor  came  to  Windygates  yesterday, 
while  we  were  all  at  lunch,"  proceeded  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "She—" 

Lady  Lundie  seized  the  scarlet  memorandum- 
book,  and  stopped  her  brother-in-law,  before  he 
could  get  any  further.  Her  ladyship's  next 
words  escaped  her  lips  spasmodically,  like  words 
let  at  intervals  out  of  a  trap. 

"  I  undertake — as  a  woman  accustomed  to 
self-restraint,  Sir  Patrick — I  undertake  to  con- 
trol myself,  on  one  condition.  I  won't  have  the 
name  mentioned.  I  won't  have  the  sex  men- 
tioned. Say,  '  The  Person, '  if  you  please.  '  The 
Person/  "  continued  Lady  Lundie,  opening  her 
memorandum  -  book  and  taking  up  her  pen, 
"committed  an  audacious  invasion  of  my  prem- 
ises yesterday  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  bowed.  Her  ladyship  made  a 
note — a  fiercely-penned  note  that  scratched  the 
paper  viciously — and  then  proceeded  to  examine 
her  brother-in-law,  in  the  capacity  of  witness. 

"What  part  of  my  house  did  'The  Person' 
invade  ?  Be  very  careful,  Sir  Patrick !  I  pro- 
pose to  place  myself  under  the  protection  of  a 
justice  of  the  peace ;  and  this  is  a  memorandum 
of  my  statement.  The  library — did  I  under- 
stand you  to  say?  Just  so — the  library." 

"Add,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  with  another  press- 
ure on  the  blister,  "that  The  Person  had  an  in- 
terview with  Blanche  in  the  library." 

Lady  Lundie's  pen  suddenly  stuck  in  the  pa- 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


119 


per,  and  scattered  a  little  shower  of  ink-drops  all 
round  it.  "  The  library, "  repeated  J^er  ladyship, 
in  a  voice  suggestive  of  approaching  suffocation. 
"  I  undertake  to  control  myself,  Sir  Patrick ! 
Any  thing  missing  from  the  library?" 

"  Nothing  missing,  Lady  -Lundie,  but  The 
Person  herself.  She — " 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick !  I  won't  have  it !  In  the 
name  of  my  own  sex,  I  won't  have  it!" 

"Pray  pardon  me — I  forgot  that  '  she'  was  a 
prohibited  pronoun  on  the  present  occasion.  The 
Person  has  written  a  farewell  letter  to  Blanche, 
and  has  gone  nobody  knows  where.  The  dis- 
tress produced  by  these  events  is  alone  answera- 
ble for  what  has  happened  to  Blanche  this  morn- 
ing. If  you  bear  that  in  mind — and  if  you  re- 
member what  your  own  opinion  is  of  Miss  Sil- 
vester— you  will  understand  why  Blanche  hesi- 
tated to  admit  you  into  her  confidence. " 

There  he  waited  for  a  reply.  Lady  Lundie 
was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  completing  her  mem- 
orandum to  be  conscious  of  his  presence  in  the 
room. 

"  '  Carriage  to  be  at  the  door  at  two-thirty,'  " 
said  Lady  Lundie,  repeating  the  final  words  of 
the  memorandum  while  she  wrottf  them.  "  '  In- 
quire for  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace,  and 
place  the  privacy  of  Windygates  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the -law.' — I  beg  your  pardon!"  ex- 
claimed her  ladyship,  becoming  conscious  again 
of  Sir  Patrick's  presence.  "  Have  I  missed  any 
thing  particularly  painful?  Pray  mention  it  if  I 
have!" 

"  You  have  missed  nothing  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance," returned  Sir  Patrick.  "I  have  placed 
you  in  possession  of  facts  which  you  had  a  right 
to  know ;  and  we  have  now  only  to  return  to 
our  medical  friend's  report  on  Blanche's  health. 
You  were  about  to  favqr  me,  I  think,  with  the 
Prognosis  ?" 

"  Diagnosis !"  said  her  ladyship,  spitefully. 
"  I  had  forgotten  at  the  time — I  remember  now. 
Prognosis  is  entirely  wrong." 

"I  sit  corrected,  Lady  Lundie.     Diagnosis." 

"You  have  informed  me,  Sir  Patrick,  that  you 
were  already  acquainted  with  the  Diagnosis.  It 
is  quite  needless  for  me  to  repeat  it  now. " 

"I  was  anxious  to  correct  my  own  impres- 
sion, my  dear  lady,  by  comparing  it  with  yours. " 

"  You  are  very  good.  You  are  a  learned  man. 
I  am  only  a  poor  ignorant  woman.  Your  im- 
pression can  not  possibly  require  correcting  by 
mine." 

"My  impression,  Lady  Lundie,  was  that  our 
friend  recommended  moral,  rather  than  medi- 
cal, treatment  for  Blanche.  If  we  can  turn  her 
thoughts  from  the  painful  subject  on  which  they 
are  now  dwelling,  we  shall  do  all  that  is  needful. 
Those  were  his  own  words,  as  I  remember  them. 
Do  you  confirm  me  ?" 

"Can  / presume  to  dispute  with  you,  Sir  Pat- 
rick? You  are  a  master  of  refined  irony,  I  know. 
I  am  afraid  it's  all  thrown  away  on  poor  me." 

(The  law  kept  its  wonderful  temper!  The 
law  met  the  most  exasperating  of  living  women 
with  a  counter-power  of  defensive  aggravation 
all  its  own !) 

' '  I  take  that  as  confirming  me,  Lady  Lundie. 
Thank  you.  Now,  as  to  the  method  of  carrying 
out  our  friend's  advice.  The  method  se'ems 
plain.  All  w.e  can  do  to.  divert  Blanche's  mind 
is  to  turn  Blanche's  attention  to  some  other  sub- 


ject of  reflection  less  painful  than  the  subject 
which  occupies  her  now.  Do  you  agree,  so  far  ?" 

"  Why  place  the  whole  responsibility  on  my 
shoulders  ?"  inquired  Lady  Lundie. 

"Out  of  profound  deference  for  your  opinion," 
answered  Sir  Patrick.  "Strictly  speaking,  no 
doubt,  any  serious  responsibility  rests  with  me. 
I  am  Blanche's  guardian — " 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  with  a  per- 
fect explosion  of  pious  fervor. 

"  I  hear  an  outburst  of  devout  thankfulness," 
remarked  Sir  Patrick.  "Am  I  to  take  it  as  ex- 
pressing— let  me  say — some  little  doubt,  on  your 
part,  as  to  the  prospect  of  managing  Blanche 
successfully,  under  present  circumstances  ?" 

Lady  Lundie's  temper  began  to  give  way 
again — exactly  as  her  brother-in-law  had  an- 
ticipated. 

"You  are  to  take  it,*  she  said,  "as  express- 
ing my  conviction  that  I  saddled  myself  with 
the  charge  of  an  incorrigibly  heartless,  obstinate, 
and  perverse  girl,  when  I  undertook  the  care  of 
Blanche." 

"  Did  you  say  '  incorrigibly  ?' " 

"I  said  'incorrigibly.'" 

"If  the  case  is  as  hopeless  as  that,  my  dear 
Madam — as  Blanche's  guardian,  I  ought  to  find 
means  to  relieve  you  of  the  charge  of  Blanche." 

"  Nobody  shall  relieve  me  of  a  duty  that  1  have 
once  undertaken ! "  retorted  Lady  Lundie.  ' '  Not 
if  I  die  at  my  post !"  % 

"Suppose  it  was  consistent  with  your  duty,'' 
pleaded  Sir  Patrick,  "'to  be  relieved  at  yodr  post  ? 
Suppose  it  was  in  harmony  with  that  '  self- sacri- 
fice' which  is  ;  the  motto  of  women  ?' " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Sir  Patrick.  Be  so 
good  as  to  explain  yourself." 

Sir  Patrick  assumed  a  new  character — the 
character  of  a  hesitating  man.  He  cast  a  look 
of  respectful  inquiry  at  his  sister-in-law,  sighed, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"No!"  he  said.  "It  would  be  asking  too 
much.  Even  with  your  high  standard  of  duty, 
it  would  be  asking  too  much." 

"Nothing  which  you  can  ask  me  in  the  name 
of  duty  is  too  much." 

"No!  no!  Let  me  remind  you.  Human 
nature  has  its  limits." 

"A  Christian  gentlewoman's  sense  of  duty 
knows  no  limits." 

"Oh,  surely  yes!" 

"Sir  Patrick!  after  what  I  have  jtfst  said, 
your  perseverance  in  doubting  me  amounts  to 
something  like  an  insult !" 

"Don't  say  that!  Let  me  put  a  ca^e.  Let 
us  suppose  the  future  interests  of  another  person 
to  depend  on  your  saying,  Yes — when  all  your 
own  most  cherished  ideas  and  opinions  urge  you 
to  say,  No.  Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  could  trample  your  own  convictions  under 
foot,  if  it  could  be  shown  that  the.  purely  abstract 
consideration  of  duty  was  involved  in  the  sacri- 
fice ?" 

"Yes!"  cried  Lady  Lundie,  mounting  the 
pedestal  of  hec  virtue  on  the  spot.  "Yes — 
without  a  moment's  hesitation !" 

"  I  sit  corrected,  Lady  Lundie.  Yon  embolden 
me  to  proceed.  Allow  me  to  ask  (after  what  I 
have  just  heard) — whether  it  is  not  your  duty  to 
act  on  advice  given  for  Blanche's  benefit,  by  one 
of  the  highest  medical  authorities  in  England  ?" 

Her  ladyship  admitted  that  it  was  her  duty ; 


120 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


'ADMIRABLE  WOMAN — ADIEU!" 


pending  a  more  favorable  opportunity  for  con- 
tradicting her  brother-in-law. 

"Very  good,"  pursued  Sir  Patrick.  "As- 
suming that  Blanche  is  like  most  other  human 
beings,  and  has  some  prospect  of  happiness  to 
contemplate,  if  she  could  only  be  made  to  see  it 
— are  we  not  bound  to  make  her  see  it,  by  our 
moral  obligation  to  act  on  the  medical  advice  ?" 
Hejjast  a  courteously-persuasive  look  at  her  lady- 
ship, and  paused  in  the  most  innocent  manner 
for  a  reply. 

If  Lady  Lundie  had  not  been  bent — thanks  to 
the  irritation  fomented  by  her  brother-in-law — 
on  disputing  the  ground  with  him,  inch  by  inch, 
she  must  have  seen  signs,  by  this  time,  of  the 
snare  that  was  being  set  for  her.  As  it  was,  she 
saw  nothing  but  the  opportunity  of  disparaging 
Blanche  and  contradicting  Sir  Patrick. 

"If  my  step-daughter  had  any  such  prospect 
as  you  describe,"  she  answered,  "I  should  of 
course  say,  Yes.  But  Blanche's  is  an  ill-regulp- 
ted  mind.  An  ill-regulated  mind  has  no  prospect 
of  happiness. " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "Blanche 
has  a  prospect  of  happiness.  In  other  words, 
Blanche  has  a  prospect  of  being  married.  And, 
what  is  more,  Arnold  Brinkworth  is  ready  to  mar- 
ry her  as  soon  as  the  settlements  can  be  prepared. " 

Lady  Lundie  started  in  her  chair — turned  crim- 
son with  rage — and  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  Sir 
Patrick  rose  to  his  feet,  and  went  on  before  she 
could  utter  a  word. 

"  1  beg  to  relieve  you,  Lady  Lundie — by  means 
which  you  have  just  acknowledged  it  to  be  your 
duty  to  accept — of  all  further  charge  of  an  incor- 
rigible girl.  As  Blanche's  guardian,  I  have  the 
honor  of  proposing  that  her  marriage  be  advanced 


to  a  day  to  be  hereafter  named  in  the  first  fort- 
night of  the  ensuing  month. " 

In  those  words  he  closed  the  trap  which  he  had 
set  for  his  sister-in-law,  and  waited  to  see  what 
came  of  it. 

A  thoroughly  spiteful  woman,  thoroughly 
roused,  is  capable  of  subordinating  every  oth- 
er consideration  to  the  one  imperative  necessi- 
ty of  gratifying  her  spite.  There  was  but  one 
way  now  of  turning  the  tables  on  Sir  Patrick — 
and  Lady  Lundie  took  it.  She  hated  him,  at 
that  moment,  so  intensely,  that  not  even  the  as- 
sertion of  her  own  obstinate  will  promised  her 
more  than  a  tame  satisfaction,  by  comparison 
with  the  priceless  enjoyment  of  beating  her 
brother-in-law  with  his  own  weapons. 

"My  dear  Sir  Patrick !"  she  said,  with  a  little 
silvery  laugh,  "you  have  wasted  much  precious 
time  and  many  eloquent  words  in  trying  to  entrap 
me  into  giving  my  consent,  when  you  might  have 
had  it  for  the  asking.  I  think  the  idea  of  hasten- 
ing Blanche's  marriage  an  excellent  one.  I  am 
charmed  to  transfer  the  charge  of  such  a  person 
as  my  step-daughter  to  the  unfortunate  young 
man  who  is  willing  to  take  her  oft'  my  hands. 
The  less  he  sees  of  Blanche's  character  the  more 
satisfied  I  shall  feel  of  his  performing  his  engage- 
ment to  marry  her.  Pray  hurry  the  lawyers,  Sir 
Patrick,  and  let  it  be  a  week  sooner  rather  than 
a  week  later,  if  you  wish  to  please  Me. " 

Her  ladyship  rose  in  her  grandest  proportions, 
and  made  a  courtesy  which  was  nothing  less  than 
a  triumph  of  polite  satire  in  dumb  show.  Sir 
Patrick  answered  by  a  profound  bow  and  a  smile 
which  said,  eloquently,  "I  believe  every  word 
of  that  charming  answer.  Admirable  woman — 
adieu!" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


121 


So  the  one  person  in  the  family  circle,  whose 
opposition  might  have  forced  Sir  Patrick  to  sub- 
mit to  a  timely  delay,  was  silenced  by  adroit  man- 
agement of  the  vices  of  her  own  character.  So, 
in  despite  of  herself,  Lady  Lundie  was  won  over 
to  the  project  for  hurrying  the  marriage  of  Ar- 
nold and  Blanche. 


CHAPTEK  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

'    STIFLED. 

IT  is  the  nature  of  Truth  to  struggle  to  the 
light.  In  more  than  one  direction,  the  truth 
strove  to  pierce  the  overlying  darkness,  and  to 
reveal  itself  to  view,  during  the  interval  between 
the  date  of  Sir  Patrick's  victory  and  the  date  of 
the  wedding-day. 

Signs  «f  perturbation  under  the  surface,  sug- 
gestive of  some  hidden  influence  at  work,  were 
not  wanting,  as  the  time  passed  on.  The  one 
thing  missing  was  the  prophetic  faculty  that  could 
read  those  signs  aright  at  Windygates  House. 

On  the  very  day  when  Sir  Patrick's  dextrous 
treatment  of  his  sister-in-law  had  smoothed  the 
way  to  the  hastening  of  the  marriage,  an  obstacle 
was  raised  to  the  new  arrangement  by  no  less  a 
person  than  Blanche  herself.  She  had  sufficient- 
ly recovered,  toward  noon,  to  be-  able  to  receive 
Arnold  in  her  own  little  sitting-room.  It  proved 
to  be  a  veiy  brief  interview.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  later,  Arnold  appeared  before  Sir  Patrick 
— while  the  old  gentleman  was  sunning  himself 
in  the  garden— rwith  a  face  of  blank  despair. 
Blanche  had  indignantly  declined  even  to  think 
of  such  a  thing  as  her  marriage,  at  a  time  when 
she  was  heart-broken  by  the  discovery  that  Anne 
had  left  her  forever. 

"  You  gave  me  leave  to  mention  it,  Sir  Patrick 
— didn't  you  ?*'  said  Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  shifted  round  a  little,  so  as  to  get 
the  sun  on  his  back,  and  admitted  that  he  had 
given  leave. 

"  If  I  had  only  known,  I  would  rather  have  cut 
my  tongue  out  than  have  said  a  word  about  it. 
What  do  you  think  she  did  ?  She  burst  out  cry- 
ing, and  ordered  me  to  leave  the  room." 

It  was  a  lovely  morning — a  cool  breeze  tem- 
pered the  heat  of  the  sun ;  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing; the  garden  wore  its  brightest  look.  Sir 
Patrick  was  supremely  comfortable.  The  little 
wearisome  vexations  of  this  mortal  life  had  re- 
tired to  a  respectful  distance  from  him.  He  pos- 
itively declined  to  invite  them  to  come  any  nearer. 

"Here  is  a  world,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
getting  the  sun  a  little  more  broadly  on  his  back, 
"  which  a  merciful  Creator  has  filled  with  lovely 
sights,  harmonious  sounds,  delicious  scents  ;  and 
here  are  creatures  with  faculties  expressly  made 
for  enjoyment  of  those  sights,  sounds,  and  scents 
— to  say  nothing  of  Love,  Dinner,  and  Sleep,  all 
thrown  into  the  bargain.  And  these  same  creat- 
ures hate,  starve,  toss  sleepless  on  their  pillows, 
see  nothing  pleasant,  hear  nothing  pleasant,  smell 
nothing  pleasant  —  cry  bitter  tears,  say  hard 
words,  contract  painful  illnesses;  wither,  sink, 
age,  die !  What  does  it  mean,  Arnold  ?  And 
how  much  longer  is  it  all  to  go  on  ?" 

The  fine  connecting  link  between  the  blindness 
of  Blanche  to  the  advantage  of  being  married, 
and  the  blindness  of  humanity  to  the  advantage 
H 


of  being  in  existence,  though  sufficiently  percept- 
ible no  doubt  to  venerable  Philosophy  ripening  in 
the  sun,  was  absolutely  invisible  to  Arnold.  He 
deliberately  dropped  the  vast  question  opened  by 
Sir  Patrick;  and,  reverting  to  Blanche,  asked 
what  was  to  be  done. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  a  fire,  when  you  can't 
extinguish  it  ?"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "  You  let  it 
blaze  till  it  goes  out.  What  do  you  do  with  a 
woman  when  you  can't  pacify  her?  Let  her 
blaze  till  she  goes  out. " 

Arnold  failed  to  see  the  wisdom  embodied  in 
that  excellent  advice.  "I  thought  you  would 
have  helped  me  to  put  things  right  with  Blanche," 
he  said. 

"I  am  helping  you.  Let  Blanche  alone. 
Don't  speak  of  the  marriage  again,  the  next  time 
you  see  her.  If  she  mentions  it,  beg  her  pardon, 
and  tell  her  you  won't  press  the  question  any 
more.  I  shall  see  her  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  I 
shall  take  exactly  the  same  tone  myself.  You 
have  put  the  idea  into  her  mind — leave  it  there 
to  ripen.  Give  her  distress  about  Miss  Silvester 
nothing  to  feed  on.  Don't  stimulate  it  by  con- 
tradiction ;  don't  rouse  it  to  defend  itself  by  dis- 
paragement of  her  lost  friend.  Leave  Time  to 
edge  her  gently  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  husband 
who  is  waiting  for  her — and  take  my  word  for  it, 
Time  will  have  her  ready  when  the  settlements 
are  ready." 

Toward  the  luncheon  hour  Sir  Patrick  saw 
Blanche,  and  put  in  practice  the  principle  which 
he  had  laid  down.  She  was  perfectly  tranquil 
before  her  uncle  left  her.  A  little  later,  Arnold 
was  forgiven.  A  little  later  still,  the  old  gentle- 
man's sharp  observation  noted  that  his  niece  was 
unusually  thoughtful,  and  that  she  looked  at  Ar- 
nold, from  time  to  time,  with  an  interest  of  a  new 
kind — an  interest  which  shyly  hid  itself  from  Ar- 
nold's view.  Sir  Patrick  went  up  to  dress  for 
dinner,  with  a  comfortable  inner  conviction  that 
the  difficulties  which  had  beset  him  were  settled 
at  last.  Sir  Patrick  had  never  been  more  mis- 
taken in  his  life. 

The  business  of  the  toilet  was  far  advanced. 
Duncan-  had  just  placed  the  glass  in  a  good  light ; 
and  Duncan's  master  was  at  that  turning-point  in 
his  daily  life  which  consisted  in  attaining,  or  not 
attaining,  absolute  perfection  in  the  tying  of  his 
white  cravat — when  some  outer  barbarian,  igno- 
rant of  the  first  principles  of  dressing  a  gentle- 
man's throat,  presumed  to  knock  at  the  bedroom 
door.  Neither  master  nor  servant  moved  or 
breathed  until  the  integrity  of  the  cravat  was 
placed  beyond  the  reach  of  accident.  Then  Sir 
Patrick  cast  the  look  of  final  criticism  in  the 
glass,  and  breathed  again  when  he  saw  that  it 
was  done. 

"  A  little  labored  in  style,  Duncan.  But  not 
bad,  considering  the  interruption?"  • 

"  By  no  means,  Sir  Patrick." 

"See  who  it  is." 

Duncan  went  to  the  door ;  and  returned,  to 
his  master,  with  an  excuse  for  the  interruption, 
in  the  shape  of  a  telegram ! 

Sir  Patrick  started  at  the  sight  of  that  unwel- 
come message,  with  unaffected  disgust.  "  Sign 
the  receipt,  Duncan,"  he  said — and  opened  the 
envelope.  Yes !  Exactly  as  he  had  anticipated ! 
News  of  Miss  Silvester,  on  the  very  day  when  he 
had  decided  to  abandon  all  further  attempt  at 
discovering  her.  The  telegram  ran  thus : 


122 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Message  received  from  Falkirk  this  morn- 
ing. Lady,  as  described,  left  the  train  at  Fal- 
kirk last  night.  Went  on,  by  the  first  train  this 
morning,  to  Glasgow.  Wait  further  instruc- 
tions." 

"Is  the  messenger  to  take  any  thing  back, 
Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"No.  I  must  consider  what  I  am  to  do.  If 
I  find  it  necessary,  I  will  send  to  the  station. 
Here  is  news  of  Miss  Silvester,  Duncan,"  con- 
tinued Sir  Patrick,  when  the  messenger  had 
gope.  "  She  has  been  traced  to  Glasgow." 

"  Glasgow  is  a  large  place,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  Yes.  Even  if  they  have  telegraphed  on  and 
had  her  watched  (which  doesn't  appear),  she  may 
escape  us  again  at  Glasgow.  I  am  the  last  man 
in  the  world,  I  hope,  to  shrink  from  accepting  my 
fair  share  of  any  responsibility.  But  1  own  I 
would  have  given  something  to  have  kept  this 
telegram  out  of  the  house.  It  raises  the  most 
awkward  question  I  have  had  to  decide  on  for 
many  a  long  day  past.  Help  me  on  with  my 
coat.  I  must  think  of  it !  I  must  think  of  it!" 

Sir  Patrick  went  down  to  dinner  in  no  agree- 
able frame  of  mind.  The  unexpected  recovery 
of  the  lost  trace  of  Miss  Silvester — there  is  no 
disguising  it — seriously  annoyed  him. 

The  dinner-party  that  day,  assembling  punc- 
tually at  the  stroke  of  the  bell,  had  to  wait  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  hostess  came  down 
stairs. 

Lady  Lundie's  apology,  when  she  entered  the 
library,  informed  her  guests  that  she  had  been 
detained  by  some  neighbors  who  had  called  at  an 
unusually  late  hour.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Julius  Dela- 
mayn,  finding  themselves  near  Windygates,  had 
favored  her  with  a  visit,  on  their  way  home,  and 
had  left  cards  of  invitation  for  a  garden-party  at 
their  house. 

Lady  Lundie  was  charmed  with  her  new  ac- 
quaintances. They  had  included  every  body  who 
was  staying  at  Windygates  in  their  invitation. 
They  had  been  as  pleasant  and  easy  as  old  friends. 
Mrs.  Delamayn  had  brought  the  kindest  message 
from  one  of  her  guests — Mrs.  Glenarm — to  say 
that  she  remembered  meeting  Lady  Lundie  in 
London,  in  the  time  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas,  and 
was  anxious  to  improve  the  acquaintance.  Mr. 
Julius  Delamayn  had  given  a  most  amusing  ac- 
count of  his  brother.  Geoffrey  had  sent  to  Lon- 
don for  a  trainer ;  and  the  whole  household  was 
on  the  tip-toe  of  expectation  to  witness  the  mag- 
nificent spectacle  of  an  athlete  preparing  himself 
for  a  foot-race.  The  ladies,  with  Mrs.  Glenarm 
at  their  head,  were  hard  at  work,  studying  the 
profound  and  complicated  question  of  human 
running — the  muscles  employed  in  it,  the  prep- 
aration required  for  it,  the  heroes  eminent  in  it. 
The  men  had  been  all  occupied  that  morning  in 
assisting  Geoffrey  to  measure  a  mile,  for  his  ex- 
ercising-ground,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  park- 
where  there  was  an  empty  cottage,  which  was 
to  be  fitted  with  all  the  necessary  appliances 
for  the  reception  of  Geoffrey  and  his  trainer. 
"You  will  see  the  last  of  my  brother,"  Julius 
had  said,  "  at  the  garden-party.  After  that 
he  retires  into  athletic  privacy,  and  has  but 
one  interest  in  life — the  interest  of  watching 
the  disappearance  of  his  own  superfluous  flesh." 
Throughout  the  dinner  Lady  Lundie  was  in  op- 
pressively good  spirits,  singing  the  praises  of  her 
new  friends.  Sir  Patrick,  on  the  other  hand, 


had  never  oeen  so  silent  within  the  memory  of 
mortal  man.  He  talked  with  an  effort ;  and  he 
listened  with  a  greater  effort  still.  To  answer 
or  not  to  answer  the  telegram  in  his  pocket  ?  To 
persist  or  not  to  persist  in  his  resolution  to  leave 
Miss  Silvester  to  go  her  own  way  ?  Those  were 
the  questions  which  insisted  on  coming  round  to 
him  as  regularly  as  the  dishes  themselves  came 
round  in  the  orderly  progression  of  the  dinner. 

Blanche — who  had  not  felt  equal  to  taking  her 
place  at  the  table — appeared  in  the  drawing-room 
afterward. 

Sir  Patrick  came  in  to  tea,  with  the  gentle- 
men, still  uncertain  as  to  the  right  course  to  take 
in  the  matter  of  the  telegram:  One  look  at 
Blanche's  sad  face  and  Blanche's  altered  man- 
ner decided  him.  What  would  be  the  result  if 
he  roused  new  hopes  by  resuming  the  effort  to 
trace  Miss  Silvester,  and  if  he  lost  the  trace  a 
second  time  ?  He  had  only  to  look  at  his  niece 
and  to  see.  Could  any  consideration  justify 
him  in  turning  her  mind  back  on  the  memory 
of  the  friend  who  had  left  her  at  the  moment 
when  it  was  just  beginning  to  look  forward  for 
relief  to  the  prospect  of  her  marriage  ?  Nothing 
could  justify  him;  and  nothing  should  induce 
him  to  do  it. 

Reasoning — soundly  enough,  from  his  own 
point  of  view — on  that  basis.  Sir  Patrick  determ- 
ined on  sending  no  further  instructions  to  his 
friend  at  Edinburgh.  That  night  he  warned 
Duncan  to  preserve  the  strictest  silence  as  to  the 
arrival  of  the  telegram.  He  burned  it,  in  case 
of  accidents,  with  his  own  hand,  in  his  own 
room. 

Eising  the  next  day  and  looking  out  of  his 
window,  Sir  Patrick  saw  the  two  young  people 
taking  their  morning  walk  at  a  moment  when 
they  happened  to  cross  the  open  grassy  space 
which  separated  the  two  shrubberies  at  Windy- 
gates.  Arnold's  arm  was  round  Blanche's  waist, 
and  they  were  talking  confidentially  with  their 
heads  close  together.  "  She  is  coming  round 
already ! "  thought  the  old  gentleman,  as  the  two 
disappeared  again  in  the  second  shrubbery  from 
view.  "Thank  Heaven!  things  are  running 
smoothly  at  last!" 

Among  the  ornaments  of  Sir  Patrick's  bed- 
room there  was  a  view  (taken  from  above)  of 
one  of  the  Highland  waterfalls.  If  he  had  look- 
ed'at  the  picture  when  he  turned  away  from  his 
window,  he  might  have  remarked  that  a  river 
which  is  running  with  its  utmost  smoothness  at 
one  moment  may  be  a  river  which  plunges  into 
its  most  violent  agitation  at  another;  and  he 
might  have  remembered,  with  certain  misgivings, 
that  the  progress  of  a  stream  of  water  has  been 
long  since  likened,  with  the  universal  consent  of 
humanity,  to  the  progress  of  the  stream  of  life. 


FIFTH  SCENE.— GLASGOW. 
CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-NINTH. 

ANNE    AMONG    THE    LAWYERS. 

ON  the  day  when  Sir  Patrick  received  the  sec- 
ond of  the  two  telegrams  sent  to  him  from  Edin- 
burgh, four  respectable  inhabitants  of  the  City 
of  Glasgow  were  startled  by  the  appearance  of 
an  object  of  interest  on  the  monotonous  horizon 
of  their  daily  lives. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


123 


The  persons  receiving  this  wholesome  shock 
were — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Karnegie  of  the  bheep's 
Head  Hotel;  and  Mr.  Camp,  and  Mr.  Crum, 
attached  as  ' '  Writers"  to  the  honorable  profes- 
sion of  the  Law. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  day  when  a  lady  ar- 
rived, in  a  cah  from  the  railway,  at  the  Sheep's 
Head  Hotel.  Her  luggage  consisted  of  a  black 
box,  and  of  a  well-worn  leather  bag  which  she 
carried  in  her  hand.  The  name  on  the  box  (re- 
cently written  on  a  new  luggage  label,  as  the 
color  of  the  ink  and  paper  showed)  was  a  very 
good  name  in  its  way,  common  to  a  very  great 
number  of  ladies,  both  in  Scotland  and  England. 
It  was  "Mrs.  Graham." 

Encountering  the  landlord  at  the  entrance  to 
the  hotel,  "Mrs.  Graham"  asked  to  be  accom- 
modated with  a  bedroom,  and  was  transferred 
in  due  course  to  the  chamber-maid  on  duty  at 
the  time.  Returning  to  the  little  room  behind 
the  bar,  in  which  the  accounts  were  kept,  Mr. 
Karnegie  surprised  his  wife  by  moving  more 
briskly,  and  looking  much  brighter  than  usual. 
Being  questioned,  Mr.  Karnegie  (who  had  cast 
the  eye  of  a  landlord  on  the  black  box  in  the 
passage)  announced  that  one  "  Mrs.  Graham" 
had  just  arrived,  and  was  then  and  there  to  be 
booked  as  inhabiting  Room  Number  Seventeen. 
Being  informed  (with  considerable  asperity  of 
tone  and  manner)  that  this  answer  failed  to  ac- 
count for  the  interest  which  appeared  to  have 
been  inspired  in  him  by  a  total  stranger,  Mr. 
Karnegie  came  to  the  point,  and  confessed  that 
"Mrs.  Graham''  was  one  of  the  sweetest-looking 
women  he  had  seen  for  many  a  long  day,  and 
that  he  feared  she  was  very  seriously  out  of 
health. 

Upon  that  reply  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Karnegie  de- 
veloped in  size,  and  the  color  of  Mrs.  Karnegie 
deepened  in  tint.  She  got  up  from  her  chair, 
and  said  that  it  might  be  just  as  well  if  she  per- 
sonally superintended  the  installation  of  "Mrs. 
Graham"  in  her  room,  and  personally  satisfied 
herself  that  "  Mrs.  Graham"  was  a  fit  inmate  to 
be  received  at  the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel.  Mr. 
Karnegie  thereupon  did  what  he  always  did — 
he  agreed  with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Karnegie  was  absent  for  some  little  time. 
On  her  return  her  eyes  had  a  certain  tigerish 
cast  in  them  when  they  rested  on  Mr.  Karnegie. 
She  ordered  tea  and  some  light  refreshment  to 
be  taken  to  Number  Seventeen.  This  done — 
without  any  visible  provocation  to  account  for 
the  remark — she  turned  upon  her  husband,  and 
said,  "Mr.  Karnegie,  you  are  a  fool."  Mr. 
Karnegie  asked,  "Why,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Kar- 
negie snapped  her  fingers,  and  said,  "  That  for 
her  good  looks !  You  don't  know  a  good-look- 
ing woman  when  you  see  her."  Mr.  Karnegie 
agreed  with  his  wife. 

Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  waiter  ap- 
peared at  the  bar  with  his  tray.  Mrs.  Karnegie, 
having  first  waived  the  tray  off,  without  institu- 
ting her  customary  investigation,  sat  down  sud- 
denly with  a  thump,  and  said  to  her  husband 
(who  had  not  uttered  a  word  in  the  interval), 
"  Don't  talk  to  Me  about  her  being  out  of  health ! 
That  for  her  health !  It's  trouble  on  her  mind. " 

Mr.  Karnegie  said,  "Is  it  now?"  Mrs.  Kar- 
negie replied,  "When  I  have  said,  It  is,  I  con- 
sider myself  insulted  if  another  person  says,  Is 
it  ?"  Mr.  Karnegie  agreed  with  his  wife. 


There  was  another  interval.  Mrs.  Karnegie 
added  up  a  bill,  with  a  face  of  disgust.  Mr. 
Karnegie  looked  at  her  with  a  face  of  wonder. 
Mrs.  Karnegie  suddenly  asked  him  why  he 
wasted  his  looks  on  her,  when  he  would  have 

Mrs.  Graham"  to  look  at  before  long.  Mr. 
Karnegie,  upon  that,  attempted  to  compromise 
the  matter  by  looking,  in  the  interim,  at  his  own 
boots.  Mrs.  Karnegie  wished  to  know  whether, 
after  twenty  years  of  married  life,  she  was  con- 
sidered to  be  not  worth  answering  by  her  own 
husband.  Treated  with  bare  civility  (she  ex- 
pected no  more),  she  might  have  gone  on  to  ex- 
plain that  "Mrs.  Graham"  was  going  out.  She 
might  also  have  been  prevailed  on  to  mention 
that  "Mrs.  Graham"  had  asked  her  a  very  re- 
markable question  of  a  business  nature,  at  the 
interview  between  them  up  stairs.  As  it  was, 
Mrs.  Karnegie's  lips  were  sealed,  and  let  Mr. 
Karnegie  deny,  if  he  dared,  that  he  richly  de- 
served it.  Mr.  Karnegie  agreed  with  his  wife. 

In  half  an  hour  more,  "Mrs.  Graham"  came 
down  stairs ;  and  a  cab  was  sent  for.  Mr.  Kar- 
negie, in  fear  of  the  consequences  if  he  did  oth- 
erwise, kept  in  a  corner.  Mrs.  Karnegie  follow- 
ed him  into  the  corner,  and  asked  him  how  he 
dared  act  in  that  way  ?  Did  he  presume  to  think, 
after  twenty  years  of  married  life,  that  his  wife 
was  jealous?  "Go,  you  brute,  and  hand  Mrs. 
Graham  into  the  cab!" 

Mr.  Karnegie  obeyed.  He  asked,  at  the  cab 
window,  to  what  part  of  Glasgow  he  should  tell 
the  driver  to  go.  The  reply  informed  him  that 
the  driver  was  to  take  "Mrs.  Graham"  to  the  of- 
fice of  Mr.  Camp,  the  lawyer.  Assuming  "  Mrs. 
Graham"  to  be  a  stranger  in  Glasgow,  and  re- 
membering that  Mr.  Camp  was  Mr.  Karnegie's 
lawyer,  the  inference  appeared  to  be,  that  "  Mrs. 
Graham's"  remarkable  question,  addressed  to  the 
landlady,  had  related  to  legal  business,  and  to  the 
discovery  of  a  trust-worthy  person  capable  of 
transacting  it  for  her. 

Returning  to  the  bar,  Mr.  Karnegie  found  his 
eldest  daughter  in  charge  of  the  books,  the  bills, 
and  the  waiters.  Mrs.  Karnegie  had  retired  to 
her  own  room,  justly  indignant  with  her  husband 
for  his  infamous  conduct  in  handing  "  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham" into  the  cab  before  her  own  eyes.  "It's 
the  old  story,  Pa,"  remarked  Miss  Karnegie,  with 
the  most  perfect  composure.  "Ma  told  you  to 
do  it,  of  course ;  and  then  Ma  says  you've  insult- 
ed her  before  all  the  servants.  I  wonder  how 
you  bear  it  ?"  Mr.  Karnegie  looked  at  his  boots, 
and  answered,  "I  wonder,  too,  my  dear."  Miss 
Karnegie  said,  "You're  not  going  to  Ma,  are 
you  ?"  Mr.  Karnegie  looked  up  from  his  boots, 
and  answered,  "  I  must,  my  dear." 

Mr.  Camp  sat  in  his  private  room,  absorbed 
over  his  papers.  Multitudinous  as  those  docu- 
ments were,  they  appeared  to  be  hot  sufficiently 
numerous  to  satisfy  Mr.  Camp.  He  rang  his 
bell,  and  ordered  more. 

The  clerk  appearing  with  a  new  pile  of  papers, 
appeared  also  with  a  message.  A  lady,  recom- 
mended by  Mrs.  Karnegie,  of  the  Sheep's  Head, 
wished  to  consult  Mr.  Camp  professionally.  Mr. 
Camp  looked  at  his  watch,  counting  out  precious 
time  before  him,  in  a  little  stand  on  the  table, 
and  said,  "Show  the  lady  in,  in  ten  minutes." 

In  ten  minutes  the  lady  appeared.  She  took 
the  client's  chair  and  lifted  her  veil.  The  same 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


THE   EFFECT   OF   ME.    CAMP'S   OPINION. 


effect  which  had  been  produced  on  Mr.  Karnegie 
was  once  more  produced  on  Mr.  Camp.  For  the 
first  time,  for  many  a  long  year  past,  he  felt  per- 
sonally interested  in  a  total  stranger.  It  might 
have  been  something  in  her  eyes,  or  it  might  have 
been  something  in  her  manner.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  took  softly  hold  of  him,  and  made  him,  to 
his  own  exceeding  surprise,  unmistakably  anx- 
ious to  hear  what  she  had  to  say ! 

The  lady  announced — in  a  low  sweet  voice, 
touched  with  a  quiet  sadness — that  her  business 
related  to  a  question  of  marriage  (as  marriage  is 
understood  by  Scottish  law),  and  that  her  own 
peace  of  mind,  and  the  happiness  of  a  person  very 
dear  to  her,  were  concerned  alike  in  the  opinion 
which  Mr.  Camp  might  give  when  he  had  been 
placed  in  possession  of  the  facts.  | 

She  then  proceeded  to  state  'the  facts,  without 
mentioning  names  :  relating  in  every  particular 
precisely  the  same  succession  of  events  which 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  had  already  related  to  Sir 
Patrick  Lundie — with  this  one  difference,  that 
she  acknowledged  herself  to  be  the  woman  who 
was  personally  concerned  in  knowing  whether, 
by  Scottish  law,  she  was  now  held  to  be  a  mar- 
ried woman  or  not. 

Mr.  Camp's  opinion  given  upon  this,  after  cer- 
tain questions  had  been  asked  and  answered,  dif- 
fered from  Sir  Patrick's  opinion,  as  given  at 
Windygates.  He  too  quoted  the  language  used 
by  the  eminent  judge — Lord  Deas— but  he  drew 
an  inference  of  his  own  from  it.  "  In  Scotland, 
consent  makes  marriage,"  he  said;  "and  con- 
sent may  be  proved  by  inference.  I  see  a  plain 
inference  of  matrimonial  consent  in  the  circum- 
stances which  you  have  related  to  me ;  and  I  say 
you  are  a  married  woman." 


The  effect  produced  on  the  lady,  when  sen- 
tence was  pronounced  on  her  in  those  terms,  was 
so  distressing  that  Mr.  Camp  sent  a  message  up 
stairs  to  his  wife ;  and  Mrs.  Camp  appeared  in 
her  husband's  private  room,  in  business  hours, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  When  Mrs.  Camp's 
services  had  in  some  degree  restored  the  lady  to 
herself,  Mr.  Camp  followed  with  a  word  of  pro- 
fessional comfort.  He,  like  Sir  Patrick,  acknowl- 
edged the  scandalous  divergence  of  opinions  pro- 
duced by  the  confusion  and  uncertainty  of  the 
marriage-law  of  Scotland.  He,  like  Sir  Patrick, 
declared  it  to  be  quite  possible  that  another  law- 
yer might  arrive  at  another  conclusion.  "  Go," 
he  said,  giving  her  his  card,  with  a  line  of  writ- 
ing on  it,  "to  my  colleague,  Mr.  Crum ;  and  say 
I  sent  you." 

The  lady  gratefully  thanked  Mr.  Camp  and 
his  wife,  and  went  next  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Crum. 

Mr.  Crum  was  the  older  lawyer  of  the  two, 
and  the  harder  lawyer  of  the  two  ;  but  he,  too, 
felt  the  influence  which  the  charm  that  there  was 
in  this  woman  exercised,  more  or  less,  over  every 
man  who  came  in  contact  with  her.  He  list- 
ened with  a  patience  which  was  rare  with  him : 
I  he  put  his  questions  with  a  gentleness  which  was 
rarer  still ;  and  when  he  was  in  possession  of  the 
circumstances — behold,  his  opinion  flatly  contra- 
dicted the  opinion  of  Mr.  Camp ! 

"  No  marriage,  ma'am,'"  he  said,  positively. 
"  Evidence  in  favor  of  perhaps  establishing  a 
marriage,  if  you  propose  to  claim  the  man.  But 
that,  as  I  understand  it,  is  exactly  what  you  don't 
wish  to  do." 

The  relief  to  the  lady,  on  hearing  this,  almost 
1  overpowered  her.  For  some  minutes  she  was 
,  unable  to  speak.  Mr.  Crum  did,  what  he  hud 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


125 


never  done  yet  in  all  his  experience  as  a  lawyer. 
He  patted  a  client  on  the  shoulder ;  and,  more 
extraordinary  still,  he  gave  a  client  permission 
to  waste  his  time.  "  Wait,  and  compose  your- 
self," said  Mr.  Crum — administering  the  law  of 
humanity.  The  lady  composed  herself, 
must  ask  you  some  questions,  ma'am,"  said  Mr. 
Crum — administering  the  law  of  the  land.  The 
lady  bowed,  and  waited  for  him  to  begin. 

"  I  know,  thus  far,  that  you  decline  to  claim 
the  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Crum.  "I  want  to 
know  now  whether  the  gentleman  is  likely  to 
claim  you. " 

The  answer  to  this  was  given  in  the  most  pos- 
itive terms.  The  gentleman  was  not  even  aware 
of  the  position  in  which  he  stood.  And,  more 
yet,  he  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  dearest 
friend  whom  the  lady  had  in  the  world. 

Mr.  Crum  opened  his  eyes — considered — and 
put  another  question  as  delicately  as  he  could  : 

"Would  it  be  painful  to  you  to  tell  me  how 
the  gentleman  came  to  occupy  the  awkward  po- 
sition in  which  he  stands  now  ?" 

The  lady  acknowledged  that  it  would  be  in- 
describably painful  to  her  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion. 

Mr.  Crum  offered  a  suggestion  under  the  form 
of  an  inquiry : 

"  Would  it  be  painful  to  you  to  reveal  the  cir- 
cumstances— in  the  interests  of  the  gentleman's 
future  prospects — to  some  discreet  person  (a  le- 
gal person  would  be  best)  who  is  not,  what  I  am, 
a  stranger  to  yon  both  ?" 

The  lady  declared  herself  willing  to  make  any 
sacrifice,  on  those  conditions — no  matter  how 
painful  it  might  be — for  her  friend's  sake. 

Mr.  Crum  considered  a  little  longer,  and  then 
delivered  his  word  of  advice : 

"At  the  present  stage  of  the  affair,"  he  said, 
"I  need  only  tell  you  what  is  the  first  step  that 
you  ought  to  take  under  the  circumstances.  In- 
form the  gentleman  at  once — either  by  word  of 
mouth  or  by  writing — of  the  position  in  which 
he  stands ;  and  authorize  him  to  place  the  case 
in  the  hands  of  a  person  known  to  you  both, 
who  is  competent  to  decide  on  what  you  are  to 
do  next.  l)o  I  understand  that  you  know  of 
such  a  person  so  qualified  ?" 

The  lady  answered  that  she  knew  of  such  a 
person. 

Mr.  Cram  asked  if  a  day  had  been  fixed  for 
the  gentleman's  marriage. 

The  lady  answered  that  she  had  made  this  in- 
quiry herself  on  the  last  occasion  when  she. had 
seen  the  gentleman's  betrothed  wife.  The  mar- 
riage was  to  take  place,  on  a  day  to  be  hereafter 
chosen,  at  the  end  of  the  autumn. 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Crum,  "is  a  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance. You  have  time  before  you.  Time 
is,  here,  of  very  great  importance.  Be  careful 
not  to  waste  it. " 

The  lady  said  she  would  return  to  her  hotel 
and  write  by  that  night's  post,  to  warn  the  gen- 
tleman of  the  position  in  which  he  stood,  and  to 
authorize  him  to  refer  the  matter  to  a  competent 
and  trust-worthy  friend  known  to  them  both. 

On  rising  to  leave  the  room  she  was  seized 
with  giddiness,  and  with  some  sudden  pang  of 
pain,  which  turned  her  deadly  pale  and  forced 
her  to  drop  back  into  her  chair.  Mr.  Crum  had 
no  wife ;  but  he  possessed  a  housekeeper — and 
he  offered  to  send  for  her.  The  lady  made  a 


sign  in  the  negative.  She  dr&nk  a  little  water, 
and  conquered  the  pain.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have 
alarmed  you,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing — I  am 
better  now."  Mr.  Crum  gave  her  his  arm,  and 
put  her  into  the  cab.  She  looked  so  pale  and 
faint  that  he  proposed  sending  his  housekeeper 
with  her.  No :  it  was  only  five  minutes'  drive 
to  the  hotel.  The  lady  thanked  him — and  went 
her  way  back  by  herself. 

"The  letter!"  she  said,  when  she  was  alone. 
"If  I  can  only  live  long  enough  to  write  the 
letter!" 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTIETH. 

ANNE   IN  THE   NEWSPAPERS. 

MRS.  KARNEGIE  was  a  woman  of  feeble  in- 
telligence and  violent  temper ;  prompt  to  take  of- 
fense, and  not,  for  the  most  part,  easy  to  appease. 
But  Mrs.  Karnegie  being — as  we  all  are  in  our 
various  degrees — a  compound  of  many  opposite 
qualities,  possessed  a  character  with  more  than 
one  side  to  it,  and  had  her  human  merits  as  well 
as  her  human  faults.  Seeds  of  sound  good  feel- 
ing were  scattered  away  in  the  remoter  corners 
of  her  nature,  and  only  waited  for  the  fertilizing 
occasion  that  was  to  help  them  to  spring  up. 
The  occasion  exerted  that  benign  influence  when 
the  cab  brought  Mr.  Crum's  client  back  to  the 
hotel.  The  face  of  the  weary,  heart-sick  wo- 
man, as  she  slowly  crossed  the  hall,  roused  all 
that  was  heartiest  and  best  in  Mrs.  Karnegie's 
nature,  and  said  to  her,  as  if  in  words,  "Jealous 
of  this  broken  creature  ?  Oh,  wife  and  mother, 
is  there  no  appeal  to  your  common  womanhood 
here  f"  . 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  overtired  yourself, 
ma'am.  Let  me  send  you  something  up  stairs  ?" 

"Send  me  pen,  ink,  and  paper,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "I  must  write  a  letter.  I  must  do  it  at 
once." 

It  was  useless  to  remonstrate  with  her.  She 
was  ready  to  accept  any  thing  proposed,  pro- 
vided the  writing  materials  were  supplied  first. 
Mrs.  Karnegie  sent  them  up,  and  then  com- 
pounded a  certain  mixture  of  eggs  and  hot  wine, 
for  which  The  Sheep's  Head  was  famous,  with  • 
tier  own  hands.  In  five  minutes  or  so  it  was 
ready — and  Miss  Karnegie  was  dispatched  by 
her  mother  (who  had  other  business  on  hand  at 
the  time)  to  take  it  up  stairs. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments  a  cry  of  alarm 
was  heard  from  the  upper  landing.  Mrs.  Kar- 
negie recognized  her  daughter's  voice,  and  hast- 
ened to  the  bedroom  floor. 

"  Oh,  mamma !     Look  at  her !  look  at  her !" 

The  letter  was  on  the  table  with  the  first  lines 
written.  The  woman  was  on  the  sofa  with  her 
handkerchief  twisted  between  her  set  teeth,  and 
icr  tortured  face  terrible  to -look  at.  Mrs.  Kar- 
negie raised  her  a  little,  examined  her  closely — 
then  suddenly  changed  color,  and  sent  her  daugh- 
ter out  of  the  room  with  directions  to  dispatch  a 
messenger  instantly  for  medical  help. 

Left  alone  with  the  sufferer,  Mrs.  Kamegie 
:arried  her  to  her  bed.  As  she  was  laid  down 
ler  left  hand  fell  helpless  over  the  side  of  the 
i>ed.  Mrs.  Karnegie  suddenly  checked  the  word 
of  sympathy  as  it  rose  to  her  lips — suddenly  lift- 
ed the  hand,  and  looked,  with  a  momentary 
sternness  of  scrutiny,  at  the  third  finger.  There 


126 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


was  a  ring  on  it.  Mrs.  Karnegie's  face  softened 
on  the  instant :  the  word  of  pity  that  had  been 
suspended  the  moment  before  passed  her  lips  free- 
ly now.  "  Poor  soul !"  said  the  respectable  land- 
lady, taking  appearances  for  granted.  ' '  Where's 
your  husband,  dear?  Try  and  tell  me." 

The  doctor  made  his  appearance,  and  went  up 
to  the  patient. 

Time  passed,  and  Mr.  Kamegie  and  his  daugh- 
ter, carrying  on  the  business  of  the  hotel,  received 
a  message  from  up  stairs  which  was  ominous  of 
something  out  of  the  common.  The  message 
gave  the  name  and  address  of  an  experienced 
nurse — with  the  doctor's  compliments,  and  would 
Mr.  Kamegie  have  the  kindness  to  send  for  her 
immediately. 

The  nurse  was  found  and  sent  up  stairs. 

Time  went  on,  and  the  business  of  the  hotel 
went  on,  and  it  was  getting  to  be  late  in  the  even- 
ing, when  Mrs.  Kamegie  appeared  at  last  in  the 
parlor  behind  the  bar.  The  landlady's  face  was 
grave ;  the  landlady's  manner  was  subdued. 
"Very,  very  ill,"  was  the  only  reply  she  made 
to  her  daughter's  inquiries.  When  she  and  her 
husband  were  together,  a  little  later,  she  told  the 
news  from  up  stairs  in  greater  detail.  "A  child 
born  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Kamegie,  in  gentler  tones 
than  were  customary  with  her.  "And  the  mo- 
ther dying,  poor  thing,  so  far  as  /can  see." 

A  little  later  the  doctor  came  down.  Dead  ? 
No. — Likely  to  live?  Impossible  to  say.  The 
doctor  returned  twice  in  the  course  of  the  night. 
Both  times  he  had  but  one  answer.  "Wait  till 
to-morrow." 

The  next  day  came.  She  rallied  a  little.  To- 
ward the  afternoon  she  began  to  speak.  She 
expressed  no  surprise  at  seeing  strangers  by  her 
bedside :  her  mind  wandered.  She  passed  again 
into  insensibility.  Then  back  to  delirium  once 
more.  The  doctor  said,  "This  may  last  for 
weeks.  Or  it  may  end  suddenly  in  death.  It's 
time  you  did  something  toward  finding  her 
friends." 

(Her  friends !  She  had  left  the  one  friend  she 
had  forever !) 

Mr.  Camp  was  summoned  to  give  his  advice. 
The  first  thing  he  asked  for  was  the  unfinished 
letter. 

It  was  blotted,  it  was  illegible  in  more  places 
than  one.  With  pains  and  care  they  made  out 
the  address  at  the  beginning,  and  here  and  there 
some  fragments  of  the  lines  that  followed.  It 
began:  "Dear  Mr.  Brinkworth."  Then  the 
writing  got,  little  by  little,  worse  and  worse. 
To  the  eyes  of  the  strangers  who  looked  at  it,  it 
ran  thus:  " I  should  ill  requite  *  *  *  Blanche's 
interests  *  *  *  For  God's  sake !  *  *  *  don't 
think  of  me  *  *  *"  There  was  a  little  more,  but 
not  so  much  as  one  word,  in  those  last  lines, 
was  legible. 

The  names  mentioned  in  the  letter  were  re- 
ported by  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  to  be  also  the 
names  on  her  lips  when  she  spoke  in  her  wan- 
derings. "  Mr.  Brinkworth'' and  "Blanche" — 
her  mind  ran  incessantly  on  those  two  persons. 
The  one  intelligible  thing  that  she  mentioned  in 
connection  with  them  was  the  letter.  She  was 
perpetually  trying,  trying,  trying  to  take  that  un- 
finished letter  to  the  post ;  and  she  could  never 
get  there.  Sometimes  the  post  was  across  the 
sea.  Sometimes  it  was  at  the  top  of  an  inac- 
cessible mountain.  Sometimes  it  was  built  in 


by  prodigious  walls  all  round  it.  Sometimes  a 
man  stopped  her  cruelly  at  the  moment  when 
she  was  close  at  the  post,  and  forced  her  back 
thousands  of  miles  away  from  it.  She  once  or 
twice  mentioned  this  visionary  man  by  his  name. 
They  made  it  out  to  be  "  Geoffrey." 

Finding  no  clew  to  her  identity  either  in  the 
letter  that  she  had  tried  to  write  or  in  the  wild 
words  that  escaped  her  from  time  to  time,  it  was 
decided  to  search  her  luggage,  and  to  look  at  the 
clothes  which  she  had  worn  when  she  arrived  at 
the  hotel. 

Her  black  box  sufficiently  proclaimed  itself  as 
recently  purchased.  On  opening  it  the  address 
of  a  Glasgow  trunk-maker  was  discovered  inside. 
The  linen  was  also  new,  and  unmarked.  The 
receipted  shop-bill  was  found  with  it.  The 
tradesmen,  sent  for  in  each  case  and  questioned, 
referred  to  their  books.  It  was  proved  that  the 
box  and  the  linen  had  both  been  purchased  on 
the  day  when  she  appeared  at  the  hotel. 

Her  black  bag  was  opened  next.  A  sum  of 
between  eighty  and  ninety  pounds  in  Bank  of 
England  notes ;  a  few  simple  articles  belonging 
to  the  toilet ;  materials  for  needle-work ;  and  a 
photographic  portrait  of  a  young  lady,  inscribed, 
"To  Anne,  from  Blanche,"  were  found  in  tie 
bag — but  no  letters,  and  nothing  whatever  that 
could  afford  the  slightest  clew  by  which  the  own- 
er could  be  traced.  The  pocket  in  her  dress  was 
searched  next.  It  contained  a  purse,  an  empty 
card-case,  and  a  new  handkerchief  unmarked. 

Mr.  Camp  shook  his  head. 

"A  woman's  luggage  without  any  letters  in 
it,"  he  said,  "suggests  to  my  mind  a  woman 
who  has  a  motive  of  her  own  for  keeping  her 
movements  a  secret.  I  suspect  she  has  destroy- 
ed her  letters,  and  emptied  her  card-case,  with 
that  view."  Mrs.  Karnegie's  report,  after  ex- 
amining the  linen  which  the  so-called  "Mrs. 
Graham"  had  worn  when  she  arrived  at  the  inn, 
proved  the  soundness  of  the  lawyer's  opinion. 
In  every  case  the  marks  had  been  cut  out.  Mrs. 
Karnegie  began  to  doubt  whether  the  ring  which 
she  had  seen  on  the  third  finger  of  the  lady's  left 
hand  had  been  placed  there  with  the  sanction  of 
the  law. 

There  was  but  one  chance  left  of  discovering — 
or  rather  of  attempting  to  discover — her  friends. 
Mr.  Camp  drew  out  an  advertisement  to  be  in- 
serted in  the  Glasgow  newspapers.  If  those 
newspapers  happened  to  be  seen  by  any  member 
of  her  family,  she  would,  in  all  probability,  be 
claimed.  In  the  contrary  event  there  would  be 
nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  for  her  recovery  or 
her  death — with  the  money  belonging  to  her 
sealed  up,  and  deposited  in  the  landlord's  strong- 
box. 

The  advertisement  appeared.  They  waited  for 
three  days  afterward,  and  nothing  came  of  it.  No 
change  of  importance  occurred,  during  the  same 
period,  in  the  condition  of  the  suffering  woman. 
Mr.  Camp  looked  in,  toward  evening,  and  said, 
"We  have  done  our  best.  There  is  no  help  for 
it  but  to  wait." 

Far  away  in  Perthshire  that  third  evening  wns 
marked.as  a  joyful  occasion  at  Windygates  House. 
Blanche  had  consented  at  last  to  listen  to  Ar- 
nold's entreaties,  and  had  sanctioned  the  writ- 
ing of  a  letter  to  London  to  order  her  wedding- 
dress. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


127 


SIXTH  SCENE.-SWANHAVEN  LODGE. 
CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIRST 

SEEDS  OF  THE  FUTURE  (FIRST  SOWING). 

' '  NOT  so  large  as  Windygates.  But — shall  we 
say  snug,  Jones  ?" 

"  And  comfortable,  Smith.  I  quite  agree  with 
you." 

'  Such  was  the  judgment  pronounced  by  the 
two  choral  gentlemen  on  Julius  Delamayn's 
house  in  Scotland.  It  was,  as  usual  with  Smith 
and  Jones,  a  sound  judgment — as  far  as  it  went. 
Swanhaven  Lodge  was  not  half  the  size  of  Windy- 
gates  ;  but  it  had  been  inhabited  for  two  cen- 
turies when  the  foundations  ot'Windygates  were 
first  laid — and  it  possessed  the  advantages,  with- 
out inheriting  the  drawbacks,  of  its  age.  There 
is  in  an  old  house  a  friendly  adaptation  to  the 
human  character,  as  there  is  in  an  old  hat  a 
friendly  adaptation  to  the  human  head.  The 
visitor  who  left  Swanhaven  quitted  it  with  some- 
thing like  a  sense  of  leaving  home.  Among  the 
few  houses  not  our  own  which  take  a  strong 
hold  on  our  sympathies  this  was  one.  The  or- 
namental grounds  were  far  inferior  in  size  and 
splendor  to  the  grounds  at  Windygates.  But 
the  park  was  beautiful — less  carefully  laid  out, 
but  also  less  monotonous  than  an  English  park. 
The  lake  on  the  northern  boundary  of  the  estate, 
famous  for  its  breed  of  swans,  was  one  of  the 
curiosities  of  the  neighborhood ;  and  the  house 
had  a  history,  associating  it  with  more  than  one 
celebrated  Scottish  name,  which  had  been  written 
and  illustrated  by  Julius  Delamayn.  Visitors  to 
Swanhaven  Lodge  were  invariably  presented  with 
a  copy  of  the  volume  (privately  printed).  One  in 
twenty  read  it.  The  rest  were  "  charmed,"  and 
looked  at  the  pictures. 

The  day  was  the  last  day  of  August,  and  the 
occasion  was  the  garden-party  given  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Delamayn. 

Smith  and  Jones — following,  with  the  other 
guests  at  Windygates,  in  Lady  Lundie's  train — 
exchanged  their  opinions  on  the  merits  of  the 
house,  standing  on  a  terrace  at  the  back,  near  a 
flight  of  steps  which  led  down  into  the  garden. 
They  formed  the  van-guard  of  the  visitors,  ap- 
pearing by  twos  and  threes  from  the  reception 
rooms,  and  all  bent  on  going  to  see  the  swans 
before  the  amusements  of  the  day  began.  Julius 
Delamayn  came  out  with  the  first  detachment, 
recruited  Smith  and  Jones,  and  other  wandering 
bachelors,  by  the  way,  and  set  forth  for  the  lake. 
An  interval  of  a  minute  or  two  passed — and  the 
terrace  remained  empty.  Then  two  ladies — at 
the  head  of  a  second  detachment  of  visitors — 
appeared  under  the  old  stone  porch  which  shel- 
tered the  entrance  on  that  side  of  the  house. 
One  of  the  ladies  was  a  modest,  pleasant  little 
person,  very  simply  dressed.  The  other  was  of 
the  tall  and  formidable  type  of  "fine  women," 
clad  in  dazzling  array.  The  first  was  Mrs.  Ju- 
lius Delamayn.  The  second  was  Lady  Lundie. 

''Exquisite!"  cried  her  ladyship,  surveying 
the  old  mullioned  windows  of  the  house,  with 
their  framing  of  creepers,  and  the  grand  stone 
buttresses  projecting  at  intervals  from  the  wall, 
each  with  its  bright  little  circle  of  flowers  bloom- 
ing round  the  base.  "I  am  really  grieved  that 
Sir  Patrick  should  have  missed  this. " 

"  I  think  you  said,  Lady  Lundie,  that  Sir  Pat- 


rick had  been  called  to  Edinburgh  by  family 
business  ?" 

"Business,  Mrs.  Delamayn,  which  is  any 
thing  but  agreeable  to  me,  as  one  member  of  the 
family.  It  has  altered  all  my  arrangements  for 
the  autumn.  My  step-daughter  is  to  be  married 
next  week." 

"Is  it  so  near  as  that?  May  I  ask  who  the 
gentleman  is  ?" 

"  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

"Surely  I  have  some  association  with  that 
name  ?" 

"  You  have  probably  heard  of  him,  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn, as  the  heir  to  Miss  Brinkworth  'a  Scotch 
property  ?" 

"Exactly!  Have  you  brought  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  here  to-day  ?'' 

"I  bring  his  apologies,  as  well  as  Sir  Pat- 
rick's. They  went  to  Edinburgh  together  the 
day  before  yesterday.  The  lawyers  engage  to 
have  the  settlements  ready  in  three  or  four  days 
more,  if  a  personal  consultation  can  be  managed. 
Some  formal  question,  I  believe,  connected  with 
title-deeds.  Sir  Patrick  thought  the  safest  way 
and  the  speediest  way  would  be  to  take  Mr. 
Brinkworth  with  him  to  Edinburgh — to  get  the 
business  over  to-day — and  to  wait  until  we  join 
them,  on  our  way  south,  to-morrow." 

"  You  leave  Windvgates,  in  this  lovely  weath- 
er?" 

' '  Most  unwillingly !  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn, I  am  at  my  step-daughter's  mercy.  Her 
uncle  has  the  authority,  as  her  guardian — and 
the  use  he  makes  of  it  is  to  give  her  her  own 
way  in  every  thing.  It  was  only  on  Friday  last 
that  she  consented  to  let  the  day  be  fixed — and 
even  then  she  made  it  a  positive  condition  that 
the  marriage  was  not  to  take  place  in  Scotland. 
Pure  wijlfujness !  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Sir  Pat- 
rick submits  ;  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  submits.  If 
I  am  to  be  present  at  the  marriage  I  must  fol- 
low their  example.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  be 
present — and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  sacrifice 
myself.  We  start  for  London  to-morrow." 

"  Is  Miss  Lundie  to  be  married  in  London  at 
this  time  of  year  ?" 

"  No.  We  only  pass  through,  on  our  way  to 
Sir  Patrick's  place  in  Kent— the  place  that  came 
to  him  with  the  title ;  the  place  associated  with 
the  last  days  of  my  beloved  husband.  Another 
trial  for  me  !  The  marriage  is  to  be  solemnized 
on  the  scene  of  my  bereavement.  My  old  wound 
is  to  be  reopened  on  Monday  next — simply  be- 
cause my  step-daughter  has  taken  a  dislike  to 
Windygates. " 

"This  day  week,  then,  is  the  day  of  the  mar- 
riage ?" 

"Yes.  This  day  week.  There  have  been 
reasons  for  hurrying  it  which  I  need  not  trouble 
yon  with.  No  words  can  say  how  I  wish  it 
was  over. — But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Delamayn,  how 
thoughtless  of  me  to  assail  you  with  my  family 
worries  !  You  are  so  sympathetic.  That  is  my 
only  excuse.  Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your 
guests.  I  could  linger  in  this  sweet  place  for- 
ever !  Where  is  Mrs.  Glenann  ?" 

"  I  really  don't  know.  I  missed  her  when  we 
came  out  on  the  terrace.  She  will  very  likely 
join  us  at  the  lake.  Do  you  care  about  seeing 
the  lake,  Lady  Lundie  ?" 

"  I  adore  the  beauties  of  Nature,  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn— especially  lakes  I" 


128 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"We  have  something  to  show  you  besides ;  we 
have  a  breed  of  swans  on  the  lake,  peculiar  to 
the  place.  My  husband  has  gone  on  with  some 
of  our  friends  ;  and  I  believe  we  are  expected  to 
follow,  as  soon  as  the  rest  of  the  party — in  charge 
of  my  sister — have  seen  the  house. " 

"And  what  a  house,  Mrs.  Delamayn !  His- 
torical associations  in  every  corner  of  it !  It  is 
stick  a  relief  to  my  mind  to  take  refuge  in  the 
past.  When  I  am  far  away  from  this  sweet 
place  I  shall  people  Swanhaven  with  its  depart- 
ed inmates,  and  share  the  joys  and  sorrows  oT 
centuries  since." 

As  Lady  Lundie  announced,  in  these  terms, 
her  intention  of  adding  to  the  population  of  the 
past,  the  last  of  the  guests  who  had  been  roam- 
ing over  the  old  house  appeared  under  the  porch. 
Among  the  members  forming  this  final  addition 
to  the  garden-party  were  Blanche,  and  a  friend 
of  her  own  age  whom  she  had  met  at  Swan- 
haven.  The  two  girls  lagged  behind  the  rest, 
talking  confidentially,  arm  in  arm — the  subject 
(it  is  surely  needless  to  add  ?)  being  the  coming 
marriage. 

"But,  dearest  Blanche,  why  are  you  not  to  be 
married  at  Windygates  ?" 

"I  detest  Windygates,  Janet.  I  have  the 
most  miserable  associations  with  the  place. 
Don't  ask  me  what  they  are !  The  effort  of  my 
life  is  not  to  think  of  them  now.  I  long  to  see 
the  last  of  Windygates.  As  for  being  married 
there,  I  have  made  it  a  condition  that  I  am  not 
to  be  married  in  Scotland  at  all. " 

"  What  has  poor  Scotland  done  to  forfeit  your 
good  opinion,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Poor  Scotland,  Janet,  is  a  place  where  people 
don't  know  whether  they  are  married  or  not.  I 
have  heard  all  about  it  from  my  uncle.  And  I 
know  somebody  who  has  been  a  victim — an  inno- 
cent victim— to  a  Scotch  marriage." 

"  Absurd,  Blanche !  You  are  thinking  of  run- 
away matches,  and  making  Scotland  responsible 
for  the  difficulties  of  people  who  daren't  own  the 
truth !" 

"I  am  not  at  all  absurd.  I  am  thinking  of 
the  dearest  friend  I  have.  If  you  only  knew — " 

"My  dear!  / am  Scotch,  remember !  You 
can  be  married  just  as  well — I  really  must  insist 
on  that — in  Scotland  as  in  England." 

"I  hate  Scotland!" 

"Blanche!" 

"  I  never  was  so  unhappy  in  my  life  as  I  have 
been  in  Scotland.  I  never  want  to  see  it  again. 
I  am  determined  to  be  married  in  England — 
from  the  dear  old  house  where  I  used  to  live 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  My  uncle  is  quite  will- 
ing. He  understands  me  and  feels  for  me. " 

"Is  that  as  much  as  to  say  that  /  don't  un- 
derstand you  and  feel  for  you?  Perhaps  I  had 
better  relieve  you  of  my  company,  Blanche?" 

"  If  you  are  going  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way, 
perhaps  you  had!" 

"Am  I  to  hear  my  native  country  run  down 
and  not  to  say  a  word  in  defense  of  it  ?" 

"Oh!  you  Scotch  people  make  such  a  fuss 
about  your  native  country!" 

"  We  Scotch  people!  you  are  of  Scotch  ex- 
traction yourself,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  talk  in  that  way.  I  wish  you  good-morning !" 

"  I  wish  you  a  better  temper !" 

A  minute  since  the  two  young  ladies  had 
been  like  twin  roses  on  one  stalk.  Now  they 


parted  with  red  cheeks  and  hostile  sentiments 
and  cutting  words.  How  ardent  is  the  warmth 
of  youth !  how  unspeakably  delicate  the  fragility 
of  female  friendship ! 

The  flock  of  visitors  followed  Mrs.  Delamayn 
to  the  shores  of  the  lake.  For  a  few  minutes 
after  the  terrace  was  left  a  solitude.  Then  there 
appeared  under  the  porch  a  single  gentleman, 
lounging  out  with  a  flower  in  his  mouth  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  This  was  the  strongest 
man  at  Swanhaven — otherwise,  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn, 

After  a  moment  a  lady  appeared  behind  him, 
walking  softly,  so  as  not  to  be  heard.  She  was 
superbly  dressed  after  the  newest  and  the  most 
costly  Parisian  design.  The  brooch  on  her  bo- 
som was  a  single  diamond  of  resplendent  water 
and  great  size.  The  fan  in  her  hand  was  a 
master-piece  of  the  finest  Indian  workmanship. 
She  looked  what  she  was,  a  person  possessed  of 
plenty  of  superfluous  money,  but  not  additionally 
blest  with  plenty  of  superfluous  intelligence  to 
correspond.  This  was  the  childless  young  widow 
of  the  great  iron-master — otherwise,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. 

The  rich  woman  tapped  the  strong  man  co- 
quettishly  on  the  shoulder  with  her  fan.  "  Ah ! 
you  bad  boy!"  she  said,  with  a  slightly-labored 
archness  of  look  and  manner.  "Have  I  found 
you  at  last !" 

Geoffrey  sauntered  on  to  the  terrace — keeping 
the  lady  behind  him  with  a  thoroughly  savage  su- 
periority to  all  civilized  submission  to  the  sex — 
and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  said  I'd  come  here  when  I'd  got  half  an 
hour  to  myself,"  he  mumbled,  turning  the  flower 
carelessly  between  his  teeth.  "  I've  got  half  an 
hour,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Did  you  come  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  vis- 
itors, or  did  you  come  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Me?" 

Geoffrey  smiled  graciously,  and  gave  the  flower 
another  turn  in  his  teeth.  "  You.  Of  course." 

The  iron-master's  widow  took  his  arm,  and 
looked  up  at  him — as  only  a  young  woman  would 
have  dared  to  look  up — with  the  searching  sum- 
mer light  streaming  in  its  full  brilliancy  on  her 
face. 

Reduced  to  the  plain  expression  of  what  it  is 
really  worth,  the  average  English  idea  of  beauty  in 
women  may  be  summed  up  in  three  words — youth, 
health,  plumpness.  The  more  spiritual  charm  of 
intelligence  and  vivacity,  the  subtler  attraction  of 
delicacy  of  line  and  fi  tness  of  detail,  are  little  looked 
for  and  seldom  appreciated  by  the  mass  of  men  in 
this  island.  It  is  impossible  otherwise  to  account 
for  the  extraordinary  blindness  of  perception 
which  (to  give  one  instance  only)  makes  nine 
Englishmen  out  of  ten  who  visit  France  come 
back  declaring  that  they  have  not  seen  a  single 
pretty  Frenchwoman,  in  or  out  of  Paris,  in  the 
whole  country.  Our  popular  type  of  beauty  pro- 
claims itself,  in  its  fullest  material  development, 
at  every  shop  in  which  an  illustrated  periodical 
is  sold.  The  same  fleshy -faced  girl,  with  the 
same  inane  smile,  and  with  no  other  expression 
whatever,  appears  under  every  form  of  illustra- 
tion, week  after  week,  and  month  after  month, 
all  the  year  round.  Those  who  wish  to  know 
what  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  like,  have  only  to  go  out 
and  stop  at  any  bookseller's  or  news-vendor's 
shop,  and  there  they  will  see  her  in  the  first  illus- 
tration, with  a  young  woman  in  it,  which  they 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


129 


discover  in  the  window.  The  one  noticeable  pe- 
culiarity in  Mrs.  Gleharm's  purely  commonplace 
and  purely  material  beauty,  which  would  have 
struck  an  observant  and  a  cultivated  man,  was 
the  curious  girlishness  of  her  look  and  manner. 
No  stranger  speaking  to  this  woman — who  had 
been  a  wife  at  twenty,  and  who  was  now  a  wid- 
ow at  twenty-four — would  ever  have  thought  of 
addressing  her  otherwise  than  as  "Miss." 

"  Is  that  the  use  you  make  of  a  flower  when  I 
give  it  to  you  ?"  she  said  to  Geoffrey.  ' '  Mum- 
bling it  in  your  teeth,  you  wretch,  as  if  you  were 
a  horse!" 

"If  you  come  to  that,"  returned  Geoffrey, 
"  I'm  more  a  horse  than  a  man.  I'm  going  to 
run  in  a  race,  and  the  public  are  betting  on  me. 
Haw!  haw!  Five  to  four." 

' '  Five  to  four !  I  believe  he  thinks  of  nothing 
but  betting.  You  great  heavy  creature,  I  can't 
move  you.  Don't  you  see  I  want  to  go  like  the 
rest  of  them  to  the  lake  ?  No !  you're  not  to  let 
go  of  my  arm !  You're  to  take  .me." 

"Can't  do  it.  Must  be  back  with  Perry  in 
half  an  hour." 

(Perry  was  the  trainer  from  London.  He  had 
arrived  sooner  than  he  had  been  expected,  and 
had  entered  on  his  functions  three  days  since.) 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  Perry !  A  little  vul- 
gar wretch.  Put  him  off.  You  won't?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  are  such  a  brute  that  you  would 
rather  be  -with  Perry  than  be  with  me?" 

"The  betting's  at  five  to  four,  my  dear.  And 
the  race  comes  off  in  a  month  from  this." 

' '  Oh !  go  away  to  your  beloved  Perry !  I  hate 
you.  I  hope  you'll  lose  the  race.  Stop  in  your 
cottage.  Pray  don't  come  back  to  the  house. 
And — mind  this  ! — don't  presume  to  say  '  my 
dear'  to  me  again." 

"It  ain't  presuming  half  far  enough,  is  it? 
Wait  a  bit.  Give  me  till  the  race  is  run — and 
then  I'll  presume  to  marry  you." 

"You !  You  will  be  as  old  as  Methuselah,  if 
you  wait  till  I  am  your  wife.  I  dare  say  Perry 
has  got  a  sister.  Suppose  you  ask  him?  She 
would  be  just  the  right  person  for  you." 

Geoffrey  gave  the  flower  another  turn  in  his 
teeth,  and  looked  as  if  he  thought  the  idea  worth 
considering. 

"All  right,  "he  said.  "Any  thing  to  be  agree- 
able to  you.  I'll  ask  Perry. " 

He  turned  away,  as  if  he  was  going  to  do  it  at 
once.  Mrs.  Glenarm  put  out  a  little  hand,  rav- 
ishingly  clothed  in  a  blush-colored  glove,  and 
laid  it  on  the  athlete's  mighty  arm.  She  pinched 
those  iron  muscles  (the  pride  and  glory  of  En- 
gland) gently.  "What  a  man  you  are!"  she 
said.  "  I  never  met  with  any  body  like  you  be- 
fore!" 

The  whole  secret  of  the  power  that  Geoffrey 
had  acquired  over  her  was  in  those  words. 

They  had  been  together  at  Swanhaven  for  lit- 
tle more  than  ten  days ;  and  in  that  time  he  had 
made  the  conquest  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  On  the  day 
before  the  garden-party — in  one  of  the  leisure  in- 
tervals allowed  him  by  Perry — he  had  caught  her 
alone,  had  taken  her  by  the  arm,  and  had  asked 
her,  in  so  many  words,  if  she  would  marry  him. 
Instances  on  record  of  women  who  have  been 
wooed  and  won  in  ten  days  are — to  speak  it  with 
all  possible  respect — not  wanting.  But  an  in- 
stance of  a  woman  willing  to  have  it  known  still 
remains  to  be  discovered.  The  iron- master's  wid- 


ow exacted  a  promise  of  secrecy  before  she  com- 
mitted herself.  When  Geoffrey  had  pledged  his 
word  to  hold  his  tongue  in  public  until  she  gave 
him  leave  to  speak,  Mrs.  Glenarm,  without  further 
hesitation,  said  Yes — having,  be  it  observed,  said 
No,  in  the  course  of  the  last  two  years,  to  at  least 
half  a  dozen  men  who  were  Geoffrey's  superi- 
ors in  every  conceivable  respect,  except  personal 
comeliness  and  personal  strength. 

There  is  a  reason  for  every  thing ;  and  there 
was  a  reason  for  this. 

However  persistently  the  epicene  theorists  of 
modern  times  may  deny  it,  it  is  nevertheless  a 
truth  plainly  visible  in  the  whole  past  history  of 
the  sexes  that  the  natural  condition  of  a  woman 
is  to  find  her  master  in  a  man.  Look  in  the  face 
of  any  woman  who  is  in  no  direct  way  dependent 
on  a  man ;  and,  as  certainly  as  you  see  the  sun 
in  a  cloudless  sky,  you  see  a  woman  who  is  not 
happy.  The  want  of  a  master  is  their  great  un- 
known want ;  the  possession  of  a  master  is — un- 
consciously to  themselves — the  only  possible  com- 
pletion of  their  lives.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of 
a  hundred  this  one  primitive  instinct  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  otherwise  inexplicable  sacrifice,  when 
we  see  a  woman,  of  her  own  free  will,  throw  her- 
self away  on  a  man  who  is  unworthy  of  her.  This 
one  primitive  instinct  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
otherwise  inexplicable  facility  of  self-surrender 
exhibited  by  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Up  to  the  time  of  her  meeting  with  Geoffrey, 
the  young  widow  had  gathered  but  one  experi- 
ence in  her  intercourse  with  the  world — the  ex- 
perience of  a  chartered  tyrant.  In  the  brief  six 
months  of  her  married  life  with  the  man  whose 
grand-daughter  she  might  have  been — and  ought 
to  have  been — she  had  only  to  lift  her  finger  to 
be  obeyed.  The  doting  old  husband  was  the 
willing  slave  of  the  petulant  young  wife's  slight- 
est caprice.  At  a  later  period,  when  society  of- 
fered its  triple  welcome  to  her  birth,  her  beauty, 
and  her  wealth — go  where  she  might,  she  found 
herself  the  object  of  the  same  prostrate  admira- 
tion among  the  suitors  who  vied  with  each  other 
in  the  rivalry  for  her  hand.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  encountered  a  man  with  a  will  of  his 
own  when  she  met  Geoffrey  Delamayn  at  Swan- 
haven  Lodge. 

Geoffrey's  occupation  of  the  moment  especially 
favored  the  conflict  between  the  woman's  asser- 
tion of  her  influence  and  the  man's  assertion  of 
his  will. 

During  the  days  that  had  intervened  between 
his  return  to  his  brother's  house  and  the  arrival 
of  the  trainer  Geoffrey  had  submitted  himself  to 
all  needful  preliminaries  of  the  physical  discipline 
which  was  to  prepare  him  for  the  race.  He  knew, 
by  previous  experience,  what  exercise  he  ought  to 
take,  what  hours  he  ought  to  keep,  what  tempta- 
tions at  the  table  he  was  bound  to  'resist.  Over 
and  over  again  Mrs.  Glenarm  tried  to  lure  him 
into  committing  infractions  of  his  own  discipline 
— and  over  and  over  again  the  influence  with 
men  which  had  never  failed  her  before  failed  her 
now.  Nothing  she  could  say,  nothing  she  could 
do,  would  movers  man.  Perry  arrived;  and 
Geoffrey's  defiance  of  every  attempted  exercise 
of  the  charming  feminine  tyranny,  to  which  ev- 
ery one  else  had  bowed,  grew  more  outrageous 
and  more  immovable  than  ever.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
became  as  jealous  of  Perry  as  if  Perry  had  been 
a  woman.  She  flew  into  passions ;  she  burst  into 


130 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


tears  ;  she  flirted  with  other  men ;  she  threatened 
to  leave  the  house.  All  quite  useless !  Geoffrey 
never  once  missed  an  appointment  with  Perry ; 
never  once  touched  any  thing  to  eat  or  drink 
that  she  could  offer  him,  if  Perry  had  forbidden 
it.  No  other  human  pursuit  is  so  hostile  to  the 
influence  of  the  sex  as  the  pursuit  of  athletic 
sports.  No  men  are  so  entirely  beyond  the 
reach  of  women  as  the  men  whose  lives  are 
passed  in  the  cultivation  of  their  own  physical 
strength.  Geoffrey  resisted  Mrs.  Glenarm  with- 
out the  slightest  effort.  lie  casually  extorted  her 
admiration,  and  undesignedly  forced  her  respect. 
She  clung  to  him,  as  a  hero ;  she  recoiled  from 
1  him,  as  a  brute ;  she  struggled  with  him,  sub- 
mitted to  him,  despised  him,  adored  him,  in  a 
breath.  And  the  clew  to  it  all,  confused  and 
contradictory  as  it  seemed,  lay  in  one  simple 
fact — Mrs.  Glenarm  had  found  her  master. 

"Take  me  to  the  lake,  Geoffrey!"  she  said, 
with  a  little  pleading  pressure  of  the  blush-col- 
ored hand. 

Geoffrey  looked  at  his  watch.  ' '  Perry  expects 
me  in  twenty  minutes,"  he  said. 

"Perry  again!" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  raised  her  fan,  in  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  fury,  and  broke  it  with  one  smart  blow 
on  Geoffrey's  face. 

"  There !"  she  cried,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot. 
' '  My  poor  fan  broken !  You  monster,  all  through 
you ! " 

Geoffrey  coolly  took  the  broken  fan  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  "  I'll  write  to  London,"  he  said, 
"and  get  you  another.  Come  along!  Kiss, 
and  make  it  up." 

He  looked  over  each  shoulder,  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  alone ;  then  lifted  her  off  the 
ground  (she  was  no  light  weight),  held  her  up 
in  the  air  like  a  baby,  and  gave  her  a  rough 
loud-sounding  kiss  on  each  cheek.  "With  kind 
compliments  from  yours  truly  ! "  he  said — and 
burst  out  laughing,  and  put  her  down  again. 

"How  dare  you  do  that?"  cried  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. "  I  shall  claim  Mrs.  Delamayn's  protec- 
tion if  I  am  to  be  insulted  in  this  way !  I  will 
never  forgive  you,  Sir!"  As  she  said  those  in- 
dignant words  she  shot  a  look  at  him  which  flat- 
ly contradicted  them.  The  next  moment  she 
was  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  was  looking  at  him 
wonderingly,  for  the  thousandth  time,  as  an  en- 
tire novelty  in  her  experience  of  male  human 
kind.  "How  rough  you  are,  Geoffrey!"  she 
said,  softly.  He  smiled  in  recognition  of  that 
artless  homage  to  the  manly  virtue  of  his  char- 
acter. She  saw  the  smile,  and  instantly  made 
another  effort  to  dispute  the  hateful  supremacy 
of  Perry.  "  Put  him  off!"  whispered  the  daugh- 
ter of  Eve,  determined  to  lure  Adam  into  taking 
a  bite  of  the  apple.  "  Come,  Geoffrey,  dear, 
never  mind  Perry,  this  once.  Take  me  to  the 
lake!" 

Geoffrey  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Perry  ex- 
pects me  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Glenarm 's  indignation  assumed  a  new 
form.  She  burst  out  crying.  Geoffrey  surveyed 
her  for  a  moment  with  a  broad  stare  of  surprise 
— and  then  took  her  by  both  arms,  and  shook  her. 

"Look  here!"  he  said,  impatiently.  "Can 
vou  coach  me  through  my  training  ?" 

"I  would  if  I  could!" 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it !    Can  you  turn 


me  out,  fit,  on  the  day  of  the  race  ?  Yes  ?  or 
No?" 

"No." 

"Then  dry  your  eyes,  and  let  Perry  do  it." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  dried  her  eyes,  and"  made  an- 
other effort. 

" I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen,"  she  said.  "I'm  so 
agitated,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Come  in- 
doors, Geoffrey — and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

Geoffrey  shook  his  head.  ' '  Perry  forbids  tea," 
he  said,  "  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"You  brute!"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  lose  the  race  ?"  retorted 
Geoffrey. 

"Yes!" 

With  that  answer  she  left  him  at  last,  and  ran 
back  into  the  house. 

Geoffrey  took  a  turn  on  the  terrace — consid- 
ered a  little — stopped — and  looked  at  the  porch 
under  which  the  irate  widow  had  disappeared 
from  his  view.  "Ten  thousand  a  year,"  he  said, 
thinking  of  the  matrimonial  prospect  which  he 
was  placing  in  peril.  ' '  And  devilish  well  earned, " 
he  added,  going  into  the  house,  under  protest,  to 
appease  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  offended  lady  was  on  a  sofa,  in  the  soli- 
tary drawing-room.  Geoffrey  sat  down  by  her. 
She  declined  to  look  at  him.  "Don't  be  a  fool !" 
said  Geoffrey,  in  his  most  persuasive  manner. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Geoffrey  took  it  away  again  without  ceremony. 
Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  to  leave  the  room.  Geoffrey 
stopped  her  by  main  force.  Mrs.  Glenarm  threat- 
ened to  summon  the  servants.  Geoffrey  said, 
"All  right!  1  don't  care  if  the  whole  house 
knows  I'm  fond  of  you  !"  Mrs.  Glenarm  looked 
at  the  door,  and  whispered,  "Hush!  for  Heav- 
en's sake!"  Geoffrey  put  her  arm  in  his,  and 
said,  "  Come  along  with  me :  I've  got  something 
to  say  to  you."  Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  back,  and 
shook  her  head.  Geoffrey  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  walked  her  out  of  the  room,  and 
out  of  the  house — taking  the  direction,  not  of  the 
terrace,  but  of  a  fir  plantation  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  grounds.  Arrived  among  the  trees,  he 
stopped  and  held  up  a  warning  forefinger  before 
the  offended  lady's  face.  "  You're  just  the  sort 
of  woman  I  like,"  he  said;  "and  there  ain't  a 
man  living  who's  half  as  sweet  on  you  as  I  am. 
You  leave  off  bullying  me  about  Perry,  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  d'o — I'll  let  you  see  me  take  a 
Sprint. " 

He  drew  back  a  step,  and  fixed  his  big  blue 
eyes  on  her,  with  a  look  which  said,  "  You  are 
a  highly-favored  woman,  if  ever  there  was  one 
yet !"  Curiosity  instantly  took  the  leading  place 
among  the  emotions  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  What's 
a  Sprint,  Geoffrey  ?"  she  asked. 

"  A  short  run,  to  try  me  at  the  top  of  my 
speed.  There  ain't  another  living  soul  in  all 
England  that  I'd  let  see  it  but  you.  Now  am 
I  a  brute  ?" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  conquered  again,  for  the 
hundredth  time  at  least.  She  said,  softly,  "Oh, 
Geoffrey,  if  you  could  only  be  always  like  this!" 
Her  eyes  lifted  themselves  admiringly  to  his. 
She  took  his  arm  again  of  her  own  accord,  and 
pressed  it  vvitli  a  loving  clasp.  Geoffrey  prophet- 
ically felt  the  ten  thousand  a  year  in  his  pocket. 
' '  Do  you  really  love  me  ?"  whispered  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. "Don't  I !"  answered  the  hero.  The  peace 
was  made,  and  the  two  walked  on  again. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


131 


YOU  RE   JUST   THE    SORT   OF   WOMAN   I    LIKE. 


They  passed  through  the  plantation,  and  came 
out  on  some  open  ground,  rising  and  falling  pret- 
tily, in  little  hillocks  and  hollows.  The  last  of 
the  hillocks  sloped  down  into  a  smooth  level 
plain,  with  a  fringe  of  sheltering  trees  on  its 
farther  side — with  a  snug  little  stone  cottage 
among  the  trees — and  with  a  smart  little  man, 
walking  up  and  down  before  the  cottage,  hold- 
ing his  hands  behind  him.  •  The  level  plain  was 
the  hero's  exercising  ground ;  the  cottage  was 
the  hero's  retreat ;  and  the  smart  little  man  was 
the  hero's  trainer. 

If  Mrs.  Glenarm  hated  Perry,  Perry  (judging 
by  appearances)  was  in  no  danger  of  loving  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  As  Geoffrey  approached  with  his  com- 
panion, the  trainer  came  to  a  stand-still,  and 
stared  silently  at  the  lady.  The  lady,  on  her 
side,  declined  to  observe  that  any  such  person 
as  the  trainer  was  then  in  existence,  and  present 
in  bodily  form  on  the  scene. 

"How  about  time?'1  said  Geoffrey. 

Perry  consulted  an  elaborate  watch,  construct- 
ed to  mark  time  to  the  fifth  of  a  second,  and  an- 
swered Geoffrey,  with  his  eye  all  the  while  on 
Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"You've  got  five  minutes  to  spare." 

"  Show  me  where  you  run ;  I'm  dying  to  see 
it!"  said  the  eager  widow,  taking  possession  of 
Geoffrey's  arm  with  both  hands. 

Geoffrey  led  her  back  to  a  place  (marked  by  a 
sapling  with  a  little  flag  attached  to  it)  at  some 
short  distance  from  the  cottage.  She  glided 
along  by  his  side,  with  subtle  undulations  of 
movement  which  appeared  to  complete  the  ex- 
asperation of  Perry.  He  waited  until  she  was 
out  of  hearing — and  then  he  invoked  (let  us  say) 
the  blasts  of  heaven  on  the  fashionably-dressed 
head  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 


"You  take  yonr  place  there,"  said  Geoffrey, 
posting  her  by  the  sapling.  "  When  I  pass 
you — "  He  stopped,  and  surveyed  her  with  a 
good-humored,  masculine  pity.  "  How  the  devil 
am  I  to  make  you  understand  it?"  he  went  on. 
' '  Look  here !  when  I  pass  you,  it  will  be  at  what 
you  would  call  (if  I  was  a  horse)  full  gallop.  Hold 
your  tongue — I  haven't  done  yet.  You're  to  look 
on  after  me  as  I  leave  you,  to  where  the  edge  of 
the  cottage  wall  cuts  the  trees.  When  you  have 
lost  sight  of  me  behind  the  wall,  you'll  have  seen 
me  run  my  three  hundred  yards  from  this  flag. 
You're  in  luck's  way !  Perry  tries  me  at  the 
long  Sprint  to-day.  You  understand  you're  to 
stop  here  ?  Very  well  then — let  me  go  and  get 
my  toggery  on. " 

"  Sha'n't  I  see  you  again,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"Haven't  I  just  told  you  that  you'll  see  me 
run  ?" 

"  Yes— but  after  that  ?" 

"After  that,  I'm  sponged  and  rubbed  down — 
and  rest  in  the  cottage. " 

"You'll  come  to  us  this  evening?" 

He  nodded,  and  left  her.  The  face  of  Perry 
looked  unutterable  things  when  he  and  Geoffrey 
met  at  the  door  of  the  cottage.  ' 

"I've  got  a  question  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn,"  said  the  trainer.  "Do  you  want  me? 
or  don't  you  ?" 

' '  Of  course  I  want  yon. " 

"What  did  I  say  when  I  first  come  here?" 
proceeded  Perry,  sternly.  "I  said,  'I  won't 
have  nobody  a  looking  on  at  a  man  I'm  train- 
ing. These  here  ladies  and  gentlemen  may  all 
have  made  up  their  minds  to  see  you.  I've 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  have  no  lookers-on. 
I  won't  have  you  timed  at  your  work  by  no- 
body but  me.  I  won't  have  every  blessed  yard 


132 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


of  ground  you  cover  put  in  the  noospapers.  I 
won't  have  a  living  soul  in  the  secret  of  what 
you  can  do,  and  what  you  can't,  except  our 
two  selves.' — Did  I  say  that,  Mr.  Delamayn?  or 
didn't  I  ?" 

"All  right!" 

"Did  I  say  it?  or  didn't  I?" 

"  Of  course  you  did ! " 

"Then  don't  you  bring  no  more  women  here. 
It's  clean  against  rules.  And  I  won't  have  it." 

Any  other  living  creature  adopting  this  tone 
of  remonstrance  would  probably  have  had  reason 
to  repent  it.  But  Geoffrey  himself  was  afraid 
to  show  his  temper  in  the  presence  of  Perry. 
]n  view  of  the  coming  race,  the  first  and  fore- 
most of  British  trainers  was  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  even  by  the  first  and  foremost  of  British 
athletes. 

"She  won't  come  again,"  said  Geoffrey. 
"She's  going  away  from  Swanhaven  in  two 
days'  time." 

"I've  put  every  shilling  I'm  worth  in  the 
world  on  you,"  pursued  Perry,  relapsing  into 
tenderness.  "And  I  tell  you  I  felt  it!  It  cut 
me  to  the  heart  when  I  see  you  coming  along 
with  a  woman  at  your  heels.  It's  a  fraud  on 
his  backers,  I  says  to  myself — that's  what  it  is. 
a  fraud  on  his  backers !" 

"  Shut  up  !"  said  Geoffrey.  "  And  come  and 
help  me  to  win  your  money."  He  kicked  open 
the  door  of  the  cottage — and  athlete  and  trainer 
disappeared  from  view. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes  by  the  little  flag, 
Mrs.  Glenarm  saw  the  two  men  approaching  her 
from  the  cottage.  Dressed  in  a  close-fitting  cos- 
tume, light  and  elastic,  adapting  itself  to  every 
movement,  and  made  to  answer  every  purpose 
required  by  the  exercise  in  which  he  was  about 
to  engage,  Geoffrey's  physical  advantages  showed 
themselves  in  their  best  and  bravest  aspect.  His 
head  sat  proud  and  easy  on  his  firm,  white  throat, 
bared  to  the  air.  The  rising  of  his  mighty  chest, 
as  he  drew  in  deep  draughts  of  the  fragrant  sum- 
mer breeze ;  the  play  of  his  lithe  and  supple  loins ; 
the  easy,  elastic  stride  of  his  straight  and  shape- 
ly legs,  presented  a  triumph  of  physical  manhood 
in  its  highest  type.  Mrs.  Glenarm 's  eyes  devoured 
him  in  silent  admiration.  He  looked  like  a  young 
god  of  mythology — like  a  statue  animated  with 
color  and  life.  ' '  Oh,  Geoffrey ! "  she  exclaimed, 
softly,  as  he  went  by.  He  neither  answered,  nor 
looked  :  he  had  other  business  on  hand  than  list- 
ening to  soft  nonsense.  He  was  gathering  him- 
self up  for  the  effort ;  his  lips  were  set ;  his  fists 
were  lightly  clenched.  Perry  posted  himself  at 
his  place,  grim  and  silent,  with  the  watch  in  his 
hand.  Geoffrey  walked  on  beyond  the  flag,  so 
as  to  give  himself  start  enough  to  reach  his  full 
speed  as  he  passed  it.  "Now  then!"  said  Per- 
ry. In  an  instant  more,  he  flew  by  (to  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  excited  imagination)  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow.  His  action  was  perfect.  His  speed, 
at  its  utmost  rate  of  exertion,  preserved  its  rare 
underlying  elements  of  strength  and  steadiness. 
Less  and  less  and  less  he  grew  to  the  eyes  that 
followed  his  course ;  still  lightly  flying  over  the 
ground,  still  firmly  keeping  the  straight  line.  A 
moment  more,  and  the  runner  vanished  behind 
the  wall  of  the  cottage,  and  the  stop-watch  of  the 
trainer  returned  to  its  place  in  his  pocket. 

In  her  eagerness  to  know  the  result,  Mrs. 
Glenarm  forgot  her  jealousy  of  Perry. 


"How  long  has  he  been ?"  she  asked. 

"There's  a  good  many  besides  you  would  be 
glad  t©  know  that,"  said  Perry. 

"Mr.  Delamayn  will  tell  me,  you  rude  man!" 

"  That  depends,  ma'am,  on  whether  /tell  him. " 

With  this  reply,  Perry  hurried  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. 

Not  a  word  passed  while  the  trainer  was  at- 
tending to  his  man,  and  while  the  man  was  re- 
covering his  breath.  When  Geoffrey  had  been 
carefully  rubbed  down,  and  clothed  again  in  his 
ordinary  garments,  Perry  pulled  a  comfortable 
easy-chair  out  of  a  corner.  Geoffrey  fell  into  the 
chair,  rather  than  sat  down  in  it.  Perry  started, 
and  looked  at  him  attentively. 

"Well?"   said  Geoffrey.     "How  about  the 
time?     Long?  short?  or  middling?" 
'  Very  good  time,"  said  Perry. 
'  How  long  ?" 

'  When  did  you  say  the  lady  was  going,  Mr. 
Delamayn  ?" 

'  In  two  days." 

'Very  well,  Sir.  I'll  tell  you  'how  long' 
when  the  lady's  gone. " 

Geoffrey  made  no  attempt  to  insist  on  an  im- 
mediate reply.  He  smiled  faintly.  After  an 
interval  of  less  than  ten  minutes  he  stretched  out 
his  legs  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"Going  to  sleep?"  said  Perry. 

Geoffrey  opened  his  eyes  with  an  effort. 
"No,"  he  said.  The  word  had  hardly  passed 
his  lips  before  his  eyes  closed  again. 

"Hullo!"  said  Perry,  watching  him.  "I 
don't  like  that." 

He  went  closer  to  the  chair.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it.  The  man  was  asleep. 

Perry  emitted  a  long  whistle  under  his  breath. 
He  stooped  and  laid  two  of  his  fingers  softly  on 
Geoffrey's  pulse.  The  beat  was  slow,  heavy, 
and  labored.  It  was  unmistakably  the  pulse  of 
an  exhausted  man. 

The  trainer  changed  color,  and  took  a  turn  in 
the  room.  He  opened  a  cupboard,  and  produced, 
from  it  his  diary  of  the  preceding  year.  The 
entries  relating  to  the  last  occasion  on  which  he 
had  prepared  Geoffrey  for  a  foot-race  included 
the  fullest  details.  He  turned  to  the  report  of 
the  first  trial,  at  three  hundred  yards,  full  speed. 
The  time  was,  by  one  or  two  seconds,  not  so 
good  as  the  time  on  this  occasion.  But  the  re- 
sult, afterward,  was  utterly  different.  There  it 
was,  in  Perry's  own  words :  "Pulse  good.  Man 
in  high  spirits.  Ready,  if  I  would  have  let  him, 
to  run  it  over  again. " 

Perry  looked  round  at  the  same  man,  a  year 
afterward — utterly  worn  out,  and  fast  asleep  in 
the  chair. 

He  fetched  pen,  ink,  and  paper  out  of  the  cup- 
board, and  wrote  two  letters  —  both  marked 
"  Private."  The  first  was  to  a  medical  man,  a 
great  authority  among  trainers.  The  second 
was  to  Perry's  own  agent  in  London,  whom  he 
knew  he  could  trust.  The  letter  pledged  the 
agent  to  the  strictest  secrecy,  and  directed  him 
to  back  Geoffrey's  opponent  in  the  Foot -Race 
for  a  sum  equal  to  the  sum  which  Perry  had  bet- 
ted on  Geoffrey  himself.  "If  you  have  got  any 
money  of  your  own  on  him,"  the  letter  concluded, 
"  do  as  I  do.  '  Hedge' — and  hold  your  tongue." 

"Another  of  'em  gone  stale!"  said  the  train- 
er, looking  round  again  at  the  sleeping  man. 
"  He'll  lose  the  race." 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


133 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SECOND. 

SEEDS     OF     THE     FUTURE     (SECOND     SOWING). 

AND  what  did  the  visitors  say  of  the  Swans  ? 

They  said,  "  Oh,  what  a  number  of  them !" — 
which  was  all  that  was  to  be  said  by  persons  ig- 
norant of  the  natural  history  of  aquatic  birds. 

And  what  did  the  visitors  say  of  the  lake  ? 

Some  of  them  said,  "How  solemn!"  Some 
of  them  said,  "  How  romantic !"  Some  of  them 
said  nothing — but  privately  thought  it  a  dismal 
scene. 

Here  again  the  popular  sentiment  struck  the 
right  note  at  starting.  The  lake  was  hidden  in 
the  centre  of  a  fir  wood.  Except  in  the  middle, 
where  the  sunlight  reached  them,  the  waters  lay 
black  under  the  sombre  shadow  of  the  trees. 
The  one  break  in  the  plantation  was  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  lake.  The  one  sign  of  movement 
and  life  to  be  seen  was  the  ghostly  gliding  of  the 
swans  on  the  dead-still  surface  of  the  water.  It 
was  solemn — as  they  said  ;  it  was  romantic — as 
tliey  said.  It  was  dismal — as  they  thought. 
Pages  of  description  could  express  no  more. 
Let  pages  of  description  be  absent,  therefore,  in 
this  place. 

Having  satiated  itself  with  the  swans,  having 
exhausted  the  lake,  the  general  curiosity  revert- 
ed to  the  break  in  the  trees  at  the  farther  end — 
remarked  a  startlingly  artificial  object,  intruding 
itself  on  the  scene,  in  the  shape  of  a  large  red 
curtain,  which  hung  between  two  of  the  tallest 
firs,  and  closed  the  prospect  beyond  from  view — 
requested  an  explanation  of  the  curtain  from  Ju- 
lius Delamayn — and  received  for  answer  that  the 
mystery  should  be  revealed  on  the  arrival  of  his 
wife  with  the  tardy  remainder  of  the  guests  who 
had  loitered  about  the  house. 

On  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Delamayn  and  the 
stragglers,  the  united  party  coasted  the  shore  of 
the  lake,  and  stood  assembled  in  front  of  the 
curtain.  Pointing  to  the  silken  cords,  hanging 
at  either  side  of  it,  Julius  Delamayn  picked  out 
two  little  girls  (children  of  his  wife's  sister),  and 
sent  them  to  the  cords,  with  instructions  to  pull, 
and  see  what  happened.  The  nieces  of  Julius 
pulled  with  the  eager  hands  of  children  in  the 
presence  of  a  mystery — the  curtains  parted  in  the 
middle,  and  a  cry  of  universal  astonishment  and 
delight  saluted  the  scene  revealed  to  view. 

At  the  end  of  a  broad  avenue  of  firs  a  cool 
green  glade  spread  its  grassy  carpet  in  the  midst 
of  the  surrounding  plantation.  The  ground  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  glade  rose ;  and  here,  on 
the  lower  slopes,  a  bright  little  spring  of  water 
bubbled  out  between  gray  old  granite  rocks. 
Along  the  right-hand  edge  of  the  turf  ran  a  row 
of  tables,  arrayed  in  spotless  white,  and  covered 
with  refreshments  waiting  for  the  guests.  On 
the  opposite  side  was  a  band  of  music,  which 
burst  into  harmony  at  the  moment  when  the 
curtains  were  drawn.  Looking  back  through 
the  avenue,  the  eye  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of 
the  lake,  where  the  sunlight  played  on  the  water, 
and  the  plumage  of  the  gliding  swans  flashed 
softly  in  brilliant  white.  Such  was  the  charm- 
ing surprise  which  Julius  Delamayn  had  ar- 
ranged for  his  friends.  It  was  only  at  moments 
like  these — or  when  he  and  his  wife  were  playing 
Sonatas  in  the  modest  little  music-room  at  Swan- 
haven — that  Lord  Holchester's  eldest  son  was 
really  happy.  He  secretly  groaned  over  the  du- 


ties which  his  position  as  a  landed  gentleman 
imposed  upon  him ;  and  he  suffered  under  some 
of  the  highest  privileges  of  his  rank  and  station 
as  under  social  martyrdom  in  its  cruelest  form. 

"We'll  dine  first,"  said  Julius,  "and  dance 
afterward.  There  is  the  programme!" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  tables,  with  the  two  la- 
dies nearest  to  him — utterly  careless  whether  they 
were  or  were  not  among  the  ladies  of  the  high- 
est rank  then  present.  To  Lady  Lundie's  aston- 
ishment he  took  the  first  seat  he  came  to,  with- 
out appearing  to  care  what  place  he  occupied  at 
his  own  feast.  The  guests,  following  his  exam- 
ple, sat  where  they  pleased,  reckless  of  precedents 
and  dignities.  Mrs.  Delamayn,  feeling  a  special 
interest  in  a  young  lady  who  was  shortly  to  be  a 
bride,  took  Blanche's  arm.  Lady  Lundie  at- 
tached herself  resolutely  to  her  hostess  on  the 
other  side.  The  three  sat  together.  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn did  her  best  to  encourage  Blanche  to  talk, 
and  Blanche  did  her  best  to  meet  the  advances 
made  to  her.  The  experiment  succeeded  but 
poorly  on  either  side.  Mrs.  Delamayn  gave  it 
up  in  despair,  and  turned  to  Lady  Lundie,  with 
a  strong  suspicion  that  some  unpleasant  subject 
of  reflection  was  preying  privately  on  the  bride's 
mind.  The  conclusion  was  soundly  drawn. 
Blanche's  little  outbreak  of  temper  with  her 
friend  on  the  terrace,  and  Blanche's  present  de- 
ficiency of  gayety  and  spirit,  were  attributable  to 
the  same  cause.  She  hid  it  from  her  uncle,  she 
hid  it  from  Arnold — but  she  was  as  anxious  as 
ever,  and  as  wretched  as  ever,  about  Anne ;  and 
she  was  still  on  the  watch  (no  matter  what  Sir 
Patrick  might  say  or  do)  to  seize  the  first  op- 
portunity of  renewing  the  search  for  her  lost 
friend. 

Meanwhile  the  eating,  the  drinking,  and  the 
talking  went  merrily  on.  The  band  played  its 
liveliest  melodies ;  the  servants  kept  the  glasses 
constantly  filled :  round  all  the  tables  gayety  and 
freedom  reigned  supreme.  The  one  conversation 
in  progress,  in  which  the  talkers  were  not  in  social 
harmony  with  each  other,  was  the  conversation  at 
Blanche's  side,  between  her  step-mother  and  Mrs. 
Delamayn.  ^ 

Among  Lady  Lundie's  other  accomplishments 
the  power  of  making  disagreeable  discoveries 
ranked  high.  At  the  dinner  in  the  glade  she 
had  not  failed  to  notice — what  every  ~body  else 
had  passed  over — the  absence  at  the  festival  of 
the  hostess's  brother-in-law ;  and  more  remarka- 
ble still,  the  disappearance  of  .a  lady  who  was 
actually  one  of  the  guests  staying  in  the  house : 
in  plainer  words,  the  disappearance  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm. 

"Am  I  mistaken?"  said  her  ladyship,  lifting 
her  eye-glass,  and  looking  round  the  tables. 
' '  Surely  there  is  a  member  of  our  party  miss- 
ing? I  don't  see  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"  Geoffrey  promised  to  be  here. '  But  he  is  not 
particularly  attentive,  as  you  may  have  noticed, 
to  keeping  engagements  of  this  sort.  Every  thing 
is  sacrificed  to  his  training.  We  only  see  him 
at  rare  intervals  now." 

With  that  reply  Mrs.  Delamayn  attempted  to 
change  the  subject.  Lady  Lundie  lifted  her  eye- 
glass, and  looked  round  the  tables  for  the  second 
time. 

"Pardon  me,"  persisted  her  ladyship — "but 
is  it  possible  that  I  have  discovered  another  ab- 
sentee ?  I  don't  see  Mrs.  Glenarm.  Yet  surely 


134 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


she  must  be  here !  Mrs.  Glenarm  is  not  training 
for  a  tbot-race.  Do  you  see  her  ?  /  don't. " 

"I  missed  her  when  we  went  out  on  the  ter- 
race, and  I  have  not  seen  her  since. " 

"  Isn't  it  very  odd,  dear  Mrs.  Delamayn  ?" 

"Our  guests  at  Swanhaven,  Lady  Lundie, 
have  perfect  liberty  to  do  as  they  please. " 

In  those  words  Mrs.  Delamayn  (as  she  fondly 
imagined)  dismissed  the  subject.  But  Lady  Lun- 
die's  robust  curiosity  proved  unassailable  by  even 
the  broadest  hint.  Carried  away,  in  all  proba- 
bility, by  the  infection  of  merriment  about  her, 
her  ladyship  displayed  unexpected  reserves  of 
vivacity.  The  mind  declines  to  realize  it ;  but 
it  is  not  the  less  true  that  this  majestic  woman 
actually  simpered ! 

"Shall  we  put  two  and  two  together?"  said 
Lady  Lundie,  with  a  ponderous  playfulness  won- 
derful to  see.  "Here,  on  the  one  hand,  is  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn — a  young  single  man.  And 
here,  on  the  other,  is  Mrs.  Glenarm — a  young 
widow.  Rank  on  the  side  of  the  young  single 
man ;  riches  on  the  side  of  the  young  widow. 
And  both  mysteriously  absent  at  the  same  time, 
from  the  same  pleasant  party.  Ha,  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn !  should  I  guess  wrong,  if  I  guessed  that 
you  will  have  a  marriage  in  the  family,  too,  be- 
fore long  ?" 

Mrs.  Delamayn  looked  a  little  annoyed.  She 
had  entered,  with  all  her  heart,  into  the  conspir- 
acy for  making  a  match  between  Geoffrey  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  But  she  was  not  prepared  to 
own  that  the  lady's  facility  had  (in  spite  of  all 
attempts  to  conceal  it  from  discovery)  made  the 
conspiracy  obviously  successful  in  ten  days'  time. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  secrets  of  the  lady  and  gen- 
tleman whom  you  mention,"  she  replied,  dryly. 

A  heavy  body  is  slow  to  acquire  movement — 
and  slow  to  abandon  movement,  when  once  ac- 
quired. The  playfulness  of  Lady  Lundie,  being 
essentially  heavy,  followed  the  same  rule.  She 
still  persisted  in  being  as  lively  as  ever. 

"Oh,  what  a  diplomatic  answer!"  exclaimed 
her  ladyship.  ' '  I  think  I  can  interpret  it,  though, 
for  all  that.  A  little  bird  tells  me  that  I  shall 
see  a  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delamnyn  in  London,  next 
season.  And  I,  for  one,  shall  not  be  surprised  to 
find  myself  congratulating  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"  If  you  persist  in  letting  your  imagination  run 
away  with  you,  Lady  Lundie,  I  can't  possibly 
help  it.  I  can  only  request  permission  to  keep 
the  bridle  on  mine." 

This  time,  even  Lady  Lundie  understood  that 
it  would  be  wise  to  say  no  more.  She  smiled 
and  nodded,  in  high  private. approval  of  her  own 
extraordinary  cleverness.  If  she  had  been  asked 
at  that  moment  who  was  the  most  brilliant  En- 
glishwoman living,  she  would  have  looked  in- 
ward on  herself — and  would  have  seen,  as  in  a 
glass  brightly,  Lady  Lundie,  of  Windygates. 

From  the  moment  when  the  talk  at  her  side 
entered  on  the  subject  of  Geoffrey  Delamayn  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm — and  throughout  the  brief  period 
during  which  it  remained  occupied  with  that 
topic — Blanche  became  conscious  of  a  strong 
smell  of  some  spirituous  liquor ;  wafted  down  on 
her,  as  she  fancied,  from  behind  and  from  above. 
Finding  the  odor  grow  stronger  and  stronger, 
she  looked  round  to  see  whether  any  special  man- 
ufacture of  grog  was  proceeding  inexplicably  at 
the  back  of  her  chair.  The  moment  she  moved 
her  head,  her  attention  was  claimed  by  a'  pair  of 


tremulous  gouty  old  hands,  offering  her  a  grouse 
pie,  profusely  sprinkled  with  truffles. 

"  Eh,  my  bonny  Miss  !"  whispered  a  persua- 
sive voice  at  her  ear,  "ye're  joost  stairving  in  a 
land  o'  plenty.  Tak'  my  advice,  and  ye '11  tak' 
the  best  thing  at  tebble — groose-poy,  and  truff- 
lers. " 

Blanche  looked  up. 

There  he  was — the  man  of  the  canny  eye,  the 
fatherly  manner,  and  the  mighty  nose — Bishop- 
riggs — preserved  in  spirits  and  ministering  at  the 
festival  at  Swanhaven  Lodge ! 

Blanche  had  only  seen  him  for  a  moment  on 
the  memorable  night  of  the  storm,  when  she  had 
surprised  Anne  at  the  inn.  But  instants  passed 
in  the  society  of  Bishopriggs  were  as  good  as 
hours  spent  in  the  company  of  inferior  men. 
Blanche  instantly  recognized  him ;  instantly 
called  to  mind  Sir  Patrick's  conviction  that  he 
was  in  possession  of  Anne's  lost  letter ;  instantly 
rushed  to  the  conclusion  that,  in  discovering 
Bishopriggs,  she  had  discovered  a  chance  of 
tracing  Anne.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  claim 
acquaintance  with  him  on  the  spot.  But  the 
eyes  of  her  neighbors  were  on  her,  warning  her 
to  wait.  She  took  a  little  of  the  pie,  and  looked 
hard  at  Bishopriggs.  That  discreet  man,  show- 
ing no  sign  of  recognition  on  his  side,  bowed  re- 
spectfully, and  went  on  round  the  table. 

"  I  wonder  whether  he  has  got  the  letter  about 
him  ?"  thought  Blanche. 

He  had  not  only  got  the  letter  about  him — 
but,  more  than  that,  he  was  actually  then  on  the 
look-out  for  the  means  of  turning  the  letter  to 
profitable  pecuniary  account. 

The  domestic  establishment  of  Swanhaven 
Lodge  included  no  formidable  array  of  servants. 
When  Mrs.  Delamayn  gave  a  large  party,  she  de- 
pended for  such  additional  assistance  as  was  need- 
ed partly  on  the  contributions  of  her  friends, 
partly  on  the  resources  of  the  principal  inn  at 
Kirkandrew.  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  serving  at  the 
time  (in  the  absence  of  any  better  employment) 
as  a  supernumerary  at  the  inn,  made  one  among 
the  waiters  who  could  be  spared  to  assist  at  the 
garden-party.  The  name  of  the  gentleman  by 
whom  he  was  to  be  employed  for  the  day  had 
struck  him,  when  he  first  heard  it,  as  having  a 
familiar  sound.  He  had  made  his  inquiries ;  and 
had  then  betaken  himself,  for  additional  inform- 
ation, to  the  letter  which  he  had  picked  up  from 
the  parlor  floor  at  Craig  Fernie. 

The  sheet  of  note-paper,  lost  by  Anne,  con- 
tained, it  may  be  remembered,  two  letters — one 
signed  by  herself ;  the  other  signed  by  Geoffrey 
— and  both  suggestive,  to  a  stranger's  eye,  of  re- 
lations between  the  writers  which  they  were  in- 
terested in  concealing  from  the  public  view. 

Thinking  it  just  possible — if  he  kept  his  eyes 
and  ears  well  open  at  Swanhaven — that  he  might 
improve  his  prospect  of  making  a  marketable 
commodity  of  the  stolen  correspondence,  Mr. 
Bishopriggs  had  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  when 
he  left  Kirkandrew.  He  had  recognized  Blanche, 
as  a  friend  of  the  lady  at  the  inn — and  as  a  per- 
son who  might  perhaps  be  turned  to  account,  in 
that  capacity.  And  he  had,  moreover,  heard  ev- 
ery word  of  the  conversation  between  Lady  Lun- 
die and  Mrs.  Delamayn  on  the  subject  of  Geof- 
frey and  Mrs.  Glenarm.  There  were  hours  to  be 
passed  before  the  guests  would  retire,  and  before 
the  waiters  would  be  dismissed.  The  conviction 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


13: 


was  strong  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs  that  | 
he  might  h'nd  good  reason  yet  for  congratulating 
himself  on  the  chance  which  had  associated  him 
with  the  festivities  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  the 
gayety  at  the  dinner-table  began,  in  certain  quar- 
ters, to  show  signs  of  wearing  out. 

The  younger  members  of  the  party — especial- 
ly the  ladies — grew  restless  with  the  appearance 
of  the  dessert.  One  after  another  they  looked 
longingly  at  the  smooth  level  of  elastic  turf  in 
the  middle  of  the  glade.  One  after  another  they 
beat  time  absently  with  their  fingers  to  the  waltz 
which  the  musicians  happened  to  be  playing  at 
the  moment.  Noticing  these  symptoms,  Mrs. 
Delamayn  set  the  example  of  rising;  and  her 
husband  sent  a  message  to  the  band.  In  ten 
minutes  more  the  first  quadrille  was  in  progress 
on  the  grass ;  the  spectators  were  picturesquely 
grouped  round,  looking  on ;  and  the  servants 
and  waiters,  no  longer  wanted,  had  retired  out 
of  sight,  to  a  picnic  of  their  own. 

The  last  person  to  leave  the  deserted  tables  was 
the  venerable  Bishopriggs.  He  alone,  of  the  men 
in  attendance,  had  contrived  to  combine  a  suffi- 
cient appearance  of  waiting  on  the  company  with 
a,  clandestine  attention  to  his  own  personal  need 
of  refreshment.  Instead  of  hurrying  away  to  the 
servants'  dinner  with  the  rest,  he  made  the  round 
of  the  tables,  apparently  clearing  away  the  crumbs 
— actually,  emptying  the  wine-glasses.  Immersed 
in  this  occupation,  he  was  startled  by  a  lady's 
voice  behind  him,  and,  turning  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Miss  Lun- 
die. 

"I  want  some  cold  water,"  said  Blanche. 
"Be  so  good  as  to  get  me  some  from  the 
spring. " 

She  pointed  to  the  bubbling  rivulet  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  glade. 

Bishopriggs  looked  unaffectedly  shocked. 

"Lord's  sake,  miss,"  he  exclaimed,  "d'ye 
relly  mean  to  offend  yer  stomach  wi'  cauld  water 
— when  there's  wine  to  be  had  for  the  asking ! " 

Blanche  gave  him  a  look.  Slowness  of  per- 
ception was  not  on  the  list  of  the  failings  of  Bish- 
opriggs. He  took  up  a  tumbler,  winked  with 
his  one  available  eye,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
rivulet.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the 
spectacle  of  a  young  lady  who  wanted  a  glass  of 
spring-water,  or  of  a  waiter  who  was  getting  it 
for  her.  Nobody  was  surprised ;  and  (with  the 
band  playing)  nobody  could  by  any  chance  over- 
hear what  might  be  said  at  the  spring-side. 

"Do  you  remember  me  at  the  inn  on  the  night 
of  the  storm  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

Mr.  Bishopriggs  had  his  reasons  (carefully  in- 
closed in  his  pocket-book)  for  not  being  too  ready 
to  commit  himself  with  Blanche  at  starting. 

"I'm  no'  saying  I  canna  remember  ye,  miss. 
Whar's  the  man  would  mak'  sic  an  answer  as 
that  to  a  bonny  young  leddy  like  you  ?" 

By  way  of  assisting  his  memory  Blanche  took 
out  her  purse.  Bishopriggs  became  absorbed  in 
the  scenery.  He  looked  at  the  running  water 
with  the  eye  of  a  man  who  thoroughly  distrusted 
it,  viewed  as  a  beverage. 

"There  ye  go,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to 
the  rivulet,  "bubblin'  to  yer  ain  annihilation  in 
the  loch  yonder!  It's  little  I  know  that's  gude 
ahoot  ye,  in  yer  unconvairted  state.  Ye're  a  type 
o'  human  life,  they  say.  I  tak'  up  my  testimony 


against  that.  Ye're  a  type  o'  naething  at  all  till 
ye're  heated  wi'  fire,  and  sweetened  wi'  sugar, 
and  strengthened  wi'  whusky ;  and  then  ye're  a 
type  o'  toddy — and  human  "life  (I  grant  it)  has 
got  something  to  say  to  ye  in  that  capacity!" 

"I  have  heard  more  about  you,  since  I  was  at 
the  inn,"  proceeded  Blanche,  "  than  you  may 
suppose."  (She  opened  her  purse :  Mr.  Bishop- 
riggs became  the  picture  of  attention.)  "You 
were  very,  very  kind  to  a  lady  who  was  staying 
at  Craig  Fernie,"  she  went  on,  earnestly.  "I 
know  that  you  have  lost  your  place  at  the  inn, 
because  you  gave  all  your  attention  to  that  lady. 
She  is  my  dearest  friend,  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  I 
want  to  thank  you.  I  do  thank  you.  Please 
accept  what  I  have  got  here  ?" 

All  the  girl's  heart  was  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
voice  as  she  emptied  her  purse  into  the  gouty 
(and  greedy)  old  hand  of  Bishopriggs. 

A  young  lady  with  a  well-filled  purse  (no  mat- 
ter how  rich  the  young  lady  may  be)  is  a  com- 
bination not  often  witnessed  in  any  country  on 
the  civilized  earth.  Either  the  money  is  always 
spent,  or  the  money  has  been  forgotten  on  the 
toilet-table  at  home.  Blanche's  purse  contained 
a  sovereign  and  some  six  or  seven  shillings  in  sil- 
ver. As  pocket-money  for  an  heiress  it  was  con- 
temptible. But  as  a  gratuity  to  Bishopriggs  it 
was  magnificent.  The  old  rascal  put  the  money 
into  his  pocket  with  one  hand,  and  dashed  away 
the  tears  of  sensibility,  which  he  had  not  shed, 
with  the  other. 

"Cast  yer  bread  on  the  waters,"  cried  Mr. 
Bishopriggs,  with  his  one  eye  raised  devotional- 
ly  to  the  sky,  "and  ye  sail  find  it  again  after 
monny  days !  Hech !  hech !  didna  I  say  when 
I  first  set  eyes  on  that  puir  leddy,  '  I  feel  like  a 
fether  to  ye?'  It's  seemply  mairvelous  to  see 
hoo  a  man's  ain  gude  deeds  find  him  oot  in  this 
lower  warld  o'  ours.  If  ever  I  heard  the  voice 
o'  naitural  affection  speaking  in  my  ain  breast," 
pursued  Mr.  Bishopriggs,  with  his  eye  fixed  in 
uneasy  expectation  on  Blanche,  "it  joost  spak' 
trumpet-tongued  when  that  winsome  creature 
first  lookit  at  me.  Will  it  be  she  now  that  told 
ye  of  the  wee  bit  sairvice  I  rendered  to  her  in 
the  time  when  I  was  in  bondage  at  the  hottle  ?" 

"Yes — she  told  me  herself." 

"Might  I  mak'  sae  bauld  as  to  ask  whar'  she 
may  be  at  the  present  time  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  I  am  more 
miserable  about  it  than  I  can  say.  She  has  gone 
away — and  I  don't  know  where." 

"Ow!  ow!  that's  bad.  And  the  bit  husband- 
creature  danglin'  at  her  petticoat's  tail  one  day, 
and  awa'  wi'  the  sunrise  next  mornin' — have  they 
baith  taken  leg-bail  together  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  him;  I  never  saw  him.i 
You  saw  him.  Tell  me — what  was  he  like?" 

"Eh!  he  was  joost  a  puir  weak  creature. 
Didn't  know  a  glass  o'  good  sherry-wine  when 
he'd  got  it.  Free  wi'  the  siller — that's  a'  ye  can 
say  for  him — free  wi'  the  siller!" 

Finding  it  impossible  to  extract  from  Mr. 
Bishopriggs  any  clearer  description  of  the  man 
who  had  been  with  Anne  at  the  inn  than  this, 
Blanche  approached  the  main  object  of  the  in- 
terview. Too  anxious  to  waste  time  in  circum- 
locution, she  turned  the  conversation  at  once  to 
the  delicate  and  doubtful  subject  of  the  lost  let- 
ter. 

"There  is  something  else  that  I  want  to  say 


136 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


to  you,"  she  resumed.  "My  friend  had  a  loss 
while  she  was  staying  at  the  inn." 

The  clouds  of  doubt  rolled  oif  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Bishopriggs.  The  lady's  friend  knew  of  the  lost 
letter.  And,  better  still,  the  lady's  friend  looked 
as  if  she  wanted  it ! 

"Ay!  ay!"  he  said,  with  all  due  appearance 
of  carelessness.  ' '  Like  eneugh.  From  the  mis- 
tress downward,  they're  a'  kittle  cattle  at  the  inn 
since  I've  left  'em.  What  may  it  ha'  been  that 
she  lost  ?" 

"  She  lost  a  letter." 

The  look  of  uneasy  expectation  reappeared  in 
the  eye  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs.  It  was  a  question 
— and  a  serious  question,  from  his  point  of  view 
— whether  any  suspicion  of  theft  was  attached 
to  the  disappearance  of  the  letter. 

"When  ye  say  '  lost,' "  he  asked,  ' ' d'ye  mean 
stolen?" 

Blanche  was  quite  quick  enough  to  see  the 
necessity  of  quieting  his  mind  on  this  point. 

"  Oh  no ! "  she  answered.  ' '  Not  stolen.  Only 
lost.  Did  you  hear  about  it  ?" 

"Wherefore  suld  /ha'  heard  aboot  it?"  He 
looked  hard  at  Blanche — and  detected  a  moment- 
ary hesitation  in  her  face.  "Tell  me  this,  my 
young  leddy, "  he  went  on,  advancing  warily  near- 
er to  the  point.  "  When  ye're  speering  for  news 
o'  your  friend's  lost  letter — what  sets  ye  on  corn- 
in'  to  mef" 

Those  words  were  decisive.  It  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that  Blanche's  future  depended  on 
Blanche's  answer  to  that  question. 

If  she  could  have  produced  the  money ;  and 
if  she  had  said,  boldly,  "  You  have  got  the  letter, 
Mr.  Bishopriggs:  I  pledge  my  word  that  no 
questions  shall  be  asked,  and  I  offer  you  ten 
pourrtls  for  it" — in  all  probability  the  bargain 
would  have  been  struck ;  and  the  whole  course 
of  coming  events  would,  in  that  case,  have  been 
altered.  But  she  had  no  money  left;  and  there 
were  no  friends,  in  the  circle  at  Swanhaven,  to 
whom  she  could  apply,  without  being  misinter- 
preted, for  a  loan  of  ten  pounds,  to  be  privately 
intrusted  to  her  on  the  spot.  Under  stress  of 
sheer  necessity  Blanche  abandoned  all  hope  of 
making  any  present  appeal  of  a  pecuniary  nature 
to  the  confidence  of  Bishopriggs. 

The  one  other  way  of  attaining  her  object  that 
she  could  see  was  to  arm  herself  with  the  influ- 
ence of  Sir  Patrick's  name.  A  man,  placed  in 
her  position,  would  have  thought  it  mere  mad- 
ness to  venture  on  such  a  risk  as  this.  But 
Blanche — with  one  act  of  rashness  already  on 
her  conscience — rushed,  woman-like,  straight  to 
the  commission  of  another.  The  same  head- 
long eagerness  to  reach  her  end,  which  had  hur- 
ried her  into  questioning  Geoffrey  before  he  left 
Windygates,  now  drove  her,  just  as  recklessly, 
into  taking  the  management  of  Bishopriggs  out 
of  Sir  Patrick's  skilled  and  practiced  hands. 
The  starving  sisterly  love  in  her  hungered  for  a 
trace  of  Anne.  Her  heart  whispered,  Risk  it ! 
And  Blanche  risked  it  on  the  spot. 

"Sir  Patrick  set  me  on  coming  to  you,"  she 
said. 

The  opening  hand  of  Mr.  Bishopriggs — ready 
to  deliver  the  letter,  and  receive  the  reward — 
closed  again  instantly  as  she  spoke  those  words. 

"  Sir  Paitrick  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Ow !  ow ! 
ye've  een  tauld  Sir  Paitrick  aboot  it,  have  ye? 
There's  a  chiel  wi'  a  lang  head  on  his  shouthers, 


if  ever  there  was  ane  yet!  What  might  Sir 
Paitrick  ha'  said  ?" 

Blanche  noticed  a  change  in  his  tone.  Blanche 
was  rigidly  careful  (when  it  was  too  late)  to  an- 
swer him  in  guarded  terms. 

"Sir  Patrick  thought  you  might  have  found 
the  letter,"  she  said,  "  and  might  not  have  re- 
membered about  it  again  until  after  you  had  left 
the  inn." 

Bishopriggs  looked  back  into-his  own  personal 
experience  of  his  old  master — and  drew  the  cor- 
rect conclusion  that  Sir  Patrick's  view  of  his  con- 
nection with  the  disappearance  of  the  letter  was 
not  the  purely  unsuspicious  view  reported  by 
Blanche.  "The  dour  auld  deevil,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  "knows  me  better  than  that!" 

"Well?"  asked  Blanche,  impatiently.  "Is  Sir 
Patrick  right  ?" 

"Richt?"'  rtyoined  Bishopriggs,  briskly.  "He's 
as  far  awa'  from  the  truth  as  John  o'  Groat's 
House  is  from  Jericho." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  the  letter?" 

"  Deil  a  bit  I  know  o'  the  .letter.  The  first  I 
ha'  heard  o'  it  is  what  I  hear  noo." 

Blanche's  heart  sank  within  her.  Had  she  de- 
feated her  own  object,  and  cut  the  ground  from 
under  Sir  Patrick's  feet,  for  the  second  time? 
Surely  not !  There  was  unquestionably  a  chance, 
on  this  occasion,  that  the  man  might  be  prevailed 
upon  to  place  the  trust  in  her  uncle  which  he  was 
too  cautious  to  confide  to  a  stranger  like  herself. 
The  one  wise  thing  to  do  now  was  to  pave  the 
way  for  the  exertion  of  Sir  Patrick's  superior  in- 
fluence, and  Sir  Patrick's  superior  skill.  She  re- 
sumed the  conversation  with  that  object  in  view. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  Sir  Patrick  has 
guessed  wrong,"  she  resumed.  "  My  friend  was 
anxious  to  recover  the  letter  when  I  last  saw  her ; 
and  I  hpped  to  hear  news  of  it  from  you.  -How- 
ever, right  or  wrong,  Sir  Patrick  has  some  rea- 
sons for  wishing  to  see  you — and  I  take  the  op- 
portunity of  telling  you  so.  He  has  left  a  letter 
to  wait  for  you  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn." 

"I'm  thinking  the  letter  will  ha'  lang  eneugh 
to  wait,  if  it  waits  till  I  gae  back  for  it  to  the 
hottle,"  remarked  Bishopriggs. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Blanche,  promptly,  "you 
had  better  give  me  an  address  at  which  Sir  Pat- 
rick can  write  to  you.  You  wouldn't,  I  suppose, 
wish  me  to  say  that  I  had  seen  you  here,  and 
that  you  refused  to  communicate  with  him  ?" 

"Never  think  it!"  cried  Bishopriggs,  fervent- 
ly. "If  there's  ain  thing  mair  than  anither  that 
I'm  carefu'  to  presairve  intact,  it's  joost  the  re- 
spectful attention  that  I  owe  to  Sir  Paitrick. 
I'll  make  sae  bauld,  miss,  as  to  chairge  ye  wi' 
that  bit  caird.  I'm  no'  settled  in  ony  place  yet 
(mair's  the  pity  at  my  time  o'  life !),  but  Sir  Pait- 
rick may  hear  o'  me,  when  Sir  Paitrick  has  need 
o'  me,  there."  He  handed  a  dirty  little  card  to 
Blanche  containing  the  name  and  address  of  a 
butcher  in  Edinburgh.  ' '  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs," 
he  went  on,  glibly.  "Care  o'  Davie  Dow,  flesh- 
er ;  Cowgate ;  Embro.  My  Patmos  in  the  weel- 
derness,  miss,  for  the  time  being." 

Blanche  received  the  address  with  a  sense  of 
unspeakable  relief.  If  she  had  once  more  ven- 
tured on  taking  Sir  Patrick's  place,  and  once 
more  failed  in  justifying  her  rashness  by  the  re- 
sults, she  had  at  least  gained  some  atoning  ad- 
vantage, this  time,  by  opening  a  means  of  com- 
munication between  her  uncle  and  Bishopriggs. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


137 


"You  will  hear  from  Sir  Patrick,"  she  said,  and 
nodded  kindly,  and  returned  to  her  place  among 
the  guests. 

"  I'll  hear  from  Sir  Paitrick,  wull  I  ?"  repeated 
Bishopriggs,  when  he  was  left  by  himself.  "Sir 
Paitrick  will  wark  naething  less  than  a  meeracle 
if  he  finds  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs  at  the  Cowgate, 
Embro ! " 

He  laughed  softly  over  his  own  cleverness; 
and  withdrew  to  a  lonely  place  in  the  plantation, 
in  which  he  could  consult  the  stolen  correspond- 
ence without  fear  of  being  observed  by  any  living 
creature.  Once  more  the  truth  had  tried  to 
struggle  into  light,  before  the  day  of  the  mar- 
riage, and  once  more  Blanche  had  innocently 
helped  the  darkness  to  keep  it  from  view. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-THIRD. 

SEEDS    OF    THE    FUTURE    (THIRD    SOWING). 

AFTER  a  new  and  attentive  reading  of  Anne's 
letter  to  Geoffrey,  and  of  Geoffrey's  letter  to 
Anne,  Bishopriggs  laid  down  comfortably  under 
a  tree,  and  set  himself  the  task  of  seeing  his  po- 
sition plainly  as  it  was  at  that  moment. 

The  profitable  disposal  of  the  correspondence 
to  Blanche  was  no  longer  among  the  possibilities 
involved  in  the  case.  As  for  treating  with  Sir 
Patrick,  Bishopriggs  determined  to  keep  equally 
clear  of  the  Cowgate,  Edinburgh,  and  of  Mrs. 
Inchbare's  inn,  so  long  as  there  was  the  faintest 
chance  of  his  pushing  his  own  interests  in  any 
other  quarter.  No  person  living  would  be  ca- 
pable of  so  certainly  extracting  the  correspond- 
ence from  him,  on  such  ruinously  cheap  terms, 
as  his  old  master.  "  I'll  no'  put  myself  under 
Sir  Paitrick 's  thumb,"  thought  Bishopriggs,  "  till 
I've  gane  my  ain  rounds  among  the  lave  o'  them 
first." 

Rendered  into  intelligible  English,  this  resolu- 
tion pledged  him  to  hold  no  communication  with 
Sir  Patrick — until  he  had  first  tested  his  success 
in  negotiating  with  other  persons,  who  might  be 
equally  interested  in  getting  possession  of  the 
correspondence,  and  more  liberal  in  giving  hush- 
money  tcr  the"  thief  who  had  stolen  it. 

Who  were  the  "  other  persons"  at  his  disposal, 
under  these  circumstances  ? 

He  had  only  to  recall  the  conversation  which 
he  had  overheard  between  Lady  Lundie  and  Mrs. 
Delamayn  to  arrive  at  the  discovery  of  one  per- 
son, to  begin  with,  who  was  directly  interested 
in  getting  possession  of  his  own  letter.  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
married  to  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Glenarm.  And 
here  was  this  same  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  in 
matrimonial  correspondence,  little  more  than  a 
fortnight  since,  with  another  lady — who  signed 
herself  "Anne  Silvester." 

Whatever  his  position  between  the  two  women 
might  be,  his  interest  in  possessing  himself  of  the 
correspondence  was  plain  beyond  all  doubt.  It 
was  equally  clear  that  the  first  thing  to  be  done 
by  Bishopriggs  was  to  find  the  means  of  obtain- 
ing a  personal  interview  with  him.  If  the  inter- 
view led  to  nothing  else,  it  would  decide  one  im- 
portant question  which  still  remained  to  be  solved. 
The  lady  whom  Bishopriggs  had  waited  on  at 
Craig  Fernie  might  well  be  "Anne  Silvester." 
Was  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  in  that  case,  the 
I 


gentleman  who  had  passed  as  her  husband  at  the 
inn? 

Bishopriggs  rose  to  his  gouty  feet  with  all  pos- 
sible alacrity,  and  hobbled  away  to  make  the  nec- 
essary inquiries,  addressing  himself,  not  to  the 
men-servants  at  the  dinner-table,  who  would  be 
sure  to  insist  on  his  joining  them,  but  to  the 
women-servants  left  in  charge  of  the  empty  house. 

He  easily  obtained  the  necessary  directions  for 
finding  the  cottage.  But  he  was  warned  that 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn 's  trainer  allowed  nobody 
to  see  his  patron  at  exercise,  and  that  he  would 
certainly  be  ordered  off  again  the  moment  he  ap- 
peared on  the  scene. 

Bearing  this  caution  in  mind,  Bishopriggs 
made  a  circuit,  on  reaching  the  open  ground,  so  as 
to  approach  the  cottage  at  the  back,  under  shel- 
ter of  the  trees  behind  it.  One  look  at  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  was  all  that  he  wanted  in  the  first 
instance.  They  were  welcome  to  order  him  off 
again,  as  long  as  he  obtained  that. 

He  was  still  hesitating  at  the  outer  line  of  the 
trees,  when  he  heard  a  loud,  imperative  voice, 
calling  from  the  front  of  the  cottage,  "  Now,  Mr. 
Geoffrey !  Time's  up !"  Another  voice  answer- 
ed, "All  right!"  and,  after  an  interval,  Geoffrey 
Delamayn  appeared  on  the  open  ground,  pro- 
ceeding to  the  point  from  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  walk  his  measured  mile. 

Advancing  a  few  steps  to  look  at  his  man  more 
closely,  Bishopriggs  was  instantly  detected  by  the 
quick  eye  of  the  trainer.  "Hullo!"  cried  Per- 
ry, "what  do  you  want  here?"  Bishopriggs 
opened  his  lips  to  make  an  excuse.  "Who  the 
devil  are  you?"  roared  Geoffrey.  The  trainer 
answered  the  question  out  of  the  resources  of  his 
own  experience.  "A  spy,  Sir — sent  to  time  you 
at  your  work."  Geoffrey  lifted  his  mighty  fist, 
and  sprang  forward  a  step.  Perry  held  his  pa- 
tron back.  "You  can't  do  that,  Sir,"  he  said; 
"  the  man's  too  old.  No  fear  of  his  turning  up 
again — you've  scared  him  out  of  his  wits."  The 
statement  was  strictly  true.  The  terror  of  Bish- 
opriggs at  the  sight  of  Geoffrey's  fist  restored  to 
him  the  activity  of  his  youth.  He  ran  for  the 
first  time  for  twenty  years ;  and  only  stopped  to 
remember  his  infirmities,  and  to  catch  his  breath, 
when  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  cottage,  among 
the  trees. 

He  sat  down  to  rest  and  recover  himself,  with 
the  comforting  inner  conviction  that,  in  one  re- 
spect at  least,  he  had  gained  his  point.  The  fu- 
rious savage,  with  the  eyes  that  darted  fire  and 
the  fist  that  threatened  destruction,  was  a  total 
stranger  to  him.  In  other  words,  not  the  man 
who  had  passed  as  the  lady's  husband  at  the 
inn. 

At  the  same  time  it  was  equally  certain  that 
he  was  the  man  involved  in  the  compromising 
correspondence  which  Bishopriggs  possessed. 
To  appeal,  however,  to  his  interest  in  obtaining 
the  letter  was  entirely  incompatible  (after  the 
recent  exhibition  of  his  fist)  with  the  strong  re- 
gard which  Bishopriggs  felt  for  his  own  personal 
security.  There  was  no  alternative  now  but  to 
open  negotiations  with  the  one  other  person  con- 
cerned in  the  matter  (fortunately,  on  this  occa- 
sion, a  person  of  the  gentler  sex),  who  was  actu- 
ally within  reach.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  at  Swan- 
haven.  She  had  a  direct  interest  in  clearing  up 
the  question  of  a  prior  claim  to  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delaraayn  on  the  part  of  another  woman.  And 


138 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"GEOFFREY  LIFTED  HIS  MIGHTY  FIST,  AND  SPRANG  FORWARD  A  STEP." 


she  could  only  do  that  by  getting  the  correspond- 
ence into  her  own  hands. 

"Praise  Providence  for  a'  its  mercies!"  said 
Bishopriggs,  getting  on  his  feet  again.  "  I've 
got  twa  strings,  as  they  say,  to  my  boo.  I  trow 
the  woman's  the  canny  string  o'  the  twa — and 
we'll  een  try  the  twanging  of  her." 

He  set  forth  on  his  road  back  again,  to  search 
among  the  company  at  the  lake  for  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  dance  had  reached  its  climax  of  anima- 
tion when  Bishopriggs  reappeared  on  the  scene 
of  his  duties ;  and  the  ranks  of  the  company  had 
been  recruited,  in  his  absence,  by  the  very  person 
whom  it  was  now  his  foremost  object  to  approach. 

Eeceiving,  with  supple  submission,  a  repri- 
mand for  his  prolonged  absence  from  the  chief 
of  the  servants,  Bishopriggs — keeping  his  one 
observant  eye  carefully  on  the  look-out — busied 
himself  in  promoting  the  circulation  of  ices  and 
cool  drinks. 

While  he  was  thus  occupied,  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  two  persons  who,  in  very  different 
ways,  stood  out  prominently  as  marked  charac- 
ters among  the  rank  and  file  of  the  guests. 

The  first  person  was  a  vivacious,  irascible  old 
gentleman,  who  persisted  in  treating  the  undeni- 
able fact  of  his  age  on  the  footing  of  a  scandal- 
ous false  report  set  afloat  by  Time.  He  was  su- 
perbly strapped  and  padded.  His  hair,  his  teeth, 
and  his  complexion  were  triumphs  of  artificial 
youth.  When  he  was  not  occupied  among  the 
youngest  women  present — which  was  very  seldom 
— he  attached  himself  exclusively  to  the  youn- 
gest men.  He  insisted  on  joining  every  dance. 
Twice  he  measured  his  length  upon  the  grass ;  but 
nothing  daunted  him.  He  was  waltzing  again, 
witn  another  young  woman,  at  the  next  dance, 


as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Inquiring  who  this 
effervescent  old  gentleman  might  be,  Bishopriggs 
discovered  that  he  was  a.  retired  officer  in  the 
navy ;  commonly  known  (among  his  inferiors) 
as  "The  Tartar;"  more  formally  described  in 
society  as  Captain  Newenden,  the  last  male  rep- 
resentative of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  En- 
gland. 

The  second  person,  who  appeared  to  occupy  a 
position  of  distinction  at  the  dance  in  the  glade, 
was  a  lady. 

To  the  eye  of  Bishopriggs,  she  was  a  miracle 
of  beauty,  with  a  small  fortune  for  a  poor  man 
carried  about  her  in  silk,  lace,  and  jewelry.  No 
woman  present  was  the  object  of  such  special  at- 
tention among  the  men  as  this  fascinating  and 
priceless  creature.  She  sat  fanning  herself  with 
a  matchless  work  of  art  (supposed  to  be  a  hand- 
kerchief) representing  an  island  of  cambric  in  the 
midst  of  an  ocean  of  lace.  She  was  surrounded 
by  a  little  court  of  admirers,  who  fetched  and 
carried  at  her  slightest  nod,  like  well-trained 
dogs.  Sometimes  they  brought  refreshments, 
which  she  had  asked  for,  only  to  decline  taking 
them  when  they  came.  Sometimes  they  brought 
information  of  what  was  going  on  among  the 
dancers,  which  the  lady  had  been  eager  to  re- 
ceive when  they  went  away,  and  in  which  she 
had  ceased  to  feel  the  smallest  interest  when  they 
came  back.  Every  body  burst  into  ejaculations 
of  distress  when  she  was  asked  to  account  for 
her  absence  from  the  dinner,  and  answered, 
"My  poor  nerves."  Every  body  said,  "What 
should  we  have  done  without  you!" — when  she 
doubted  if  she  had  done  wisely  in  joining  the 
party  at  all.  Inquiring  who  this  favored  lady 
might  be,  Bishopriggs  discovered  that  she  was 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


139 


the  niece  of  the  indomitable  old  gentleman  who 
would  dance — or,  more  plainly  still,  no  less  a 
person  than  his  contemplated  customer,  Mrs. 
Glenarm. 

With  all  his  enormous  assurance  Bishopriggs 
was  daunted  when  he  found  himself  facing  the 
question  of  what  he  was  to  do  next. 

To  open  negotiations  with  Mrs.  Glenarm,  un- 
der present  circumstances,  was,  for  a  man  in  his 
position,  simply  impossible.  But.  apart  from 
this,  the  prospect  of  profitably  addressing  him- 
self to  that  lady  in  the  future  was,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  beset  with  difficulties  of  no  common  kind. 

Supposing  the  means  of  disclosing  Geoffrey's 
position  to  her  to  be  found — what  would  she  do, 
when  she  received  her  warning?  She  would  in 
all  probability  apply  to  one  of  two  formidable 
men,  both  of  whom  were  interested  in  the  matter. 
If  she  went  straight  to  the  man  accused  of  at- 
tempting to  marry  her,  at  a  time  when  he  was 
already  engaged  to  another  woman — Bishopriggs 
would  find  himself  confronted  with  the  owner  of 
that  terrible  fist,  which  had  justly  terrified  him 
even  on  a  distant  and  cursory  view.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  placed  her  interests  in  the  care 
of  her  uncle — Bishopriggs  had  only  to  look  at 
the  captain,  and  to  calculate  his  chance  of  im- 
posing terms  on  a  man  who  owed  Life  a  bill  of 
more  than  sixty  years'  date,  and  who  openly  de- 
fied time  to  recover  the  debt. 

With  these  serious  obstacles  standing  in  the 
way,  what  was  to  be  done?  The  only  alterna- 
tive left  was  to  approach  Mrs.  Glenarm  under 
shelter  of  the  dark. 

Reaching  this  conclusion,  Bishopriggs  decided 
to  ascertain  from  the  servants  what  the  lady's 
future  movements  might  be ;  and,  thus  informed, 
to  startle  her  by  anonymous  warnings,  conveyed 
through  the  post,  and  claiming  their  answer 
through  the  advertising  channel  of  a  newspaper. 
Here  was  the  certainty  of  alarming  her,  coupled 
with  the  certainty  of  safety  to  himself!  Little 
did  Mrs.  Glenarm  dream,  when  she  capriciously 
stopped  a  servant  going  by  with  some  glasses  of 
lemonade,  that  the  wretched  old  creature  who 
offered  the  tray  contemplated  corresponding  with 
her  before  the  week  was  out,  in  the  double  char- 
acter of  her  "Well -Wisher"  and  her  "True 
Friend." 

The  evening  advanced.  The  shadows  length- 
ened. The  waters  of  the  lake  grew  pitchy  black. 
The  gliding  of  the  ghostly  swans  became  rare 
and  more  rare.  The  elders  of  the  party  thought 
of  the  drive  home.  The  juniors  (excepting  Cap- 
tain Newenden)  began  to  flag  at  the  dance. 
Little  by  little  the  comfortable  attractions  of  the 
house  —  tea,  coffee,  and  candle-light  in  snug 
rooms — resumed  their  influence.  The  guests 
abandoned  the  glade ;  and  the  fingers  and  lungs 
of  the  musicians  rested  at  last. 

Lady  Lundie  and  her  party  were  the  first  to 
send  for  the  carriage  and  say  farewell ;  the  break- 
up of  the  household  at  Windygates  on  the  next 
day,  and  the  journey  south,  being  sufficient  apol- 
ogies for  setting  the  example  of  retreat.  In  an 
hour  more  the  only  visitors  left  were  the  guests 
staying  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

The  company  gone,  the  hired  waiters  from 
Kirkandrew  were  paid  and  dismissed. 

On  the  journey  back  the  silence  of  Bishop- 
riggs created  some  surprise  among  his  comrades. 
"  I've  got  my  ain  concerns  to  think  of,"  was  the 


only  answer  he  vouchsafed  to  the  remonstrances 
add'ressed  to  him.  The  "concerns"  alluded  to, 
comprehended,  among  other  changes  of  plan,  his 
departure  from  Kirkandrew  the  next  day — with 
a  reference,  in  case  of  inquiries,  to  his  convenient 
friend  at  the  Cowgate,  Edinburgh.  His  actual 
destination — to  be  kept  a  secret  from  every  body 
— was  Perth.  The  neighborhood  of  this  town— 
as  stated  on  the  authority  of  her  own  maid — was 
the  part  of  Scotland  to  which  the  rich  widow 
contemplated  removing  when  she  left  Swanhaven 
in  two  days'  time.  At  Perth,  Bishopriggs  knew 
of  more  than  one  place  in  which  he  could  get 
temporary  employment  —  and  at  Perth  he  de- 
termined to  make  his  first  anonymous  advances 
to  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  quietly 
enough  at  the  Lodge. 

The  guests  were  sleepy  and  dull  after  the  ex- 
citement of  the  day.  Mrs.  Glenarm  retired  ear- 
ly. At  eleven  o'clock  Julius  Delamayn  was  the 
only  person  left  up  in  the  house.  He  was  un- 
derstood to  be  in  his  study,  preparing  an  ad- 
dress to  the  electors,  based  on  instructions  sent 
from  London  by  his  father.  He  was  actually 
occupied  in  the  music-room — now  that  there  was 
nobody  to  discover  him — playing  exercises  softly 
on  his  beloved  violin. 

At  the  trainer's  cottage  a  trifling  incident  oc- 
cnred,  that  night,  which  afforded  materials  for  a 
note  in  Perry's  professional  diary. 

Geoffrey  had  sustained  the  later  trial  of  walk- 
ing for  a  given  time  and  distance,  at  his  full  speed, 
without  showing  any  of  those  symptoms  of  ex- 
haustion which  had  followed  the  more  serious 
experiment  of  running,  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected  earlier  in  the  day.  Perry,  honestly 
bent — though  he  had  privately  hedged  his  own 
bets — on  doing  his  best  to  bring  his  man  in  good 
order  to  the  post  on  the  day  of  the  race,  had  for- 
bidden Geoffrey  to  pay  his  evening  visit  to  the 
house,  and  had  sent  him  to  bed  earlier  than 
usual.  The  trainer  was  alone,  looking  over  his 
own  written  rules,  and  considering  what  modifi- 
cations he  should  introduce  into  the  diet  and 
exercises  of  the  next  day,  when  he  was  startled 
by  a  sound  of  groaning  from  the  bedroom  in 
which  his  patron  lay  asleep. 

He  went  in,  and  found  Geoffrey  rolling  to  and 
fro  on  the  pillow,  with  his  face  contorted,  with 
his  hands  clenched,  and  with  the  perspiration 
standing  thick  on  his  forehead — suffering  evi- 
dently under  the  nervous  oppression  produced 
by  the  phantom-terrors  of  a  dream. 

Perry  spoke  to  him,  and  pulled  him  up  in  the 
!  bed.  He  woke  with  a  scream.  He  stared  at 
!  his  trainer  in  vacant  terror,  and  spoke  to  his 
trainer  in  wild  words.  "  What  are  your  horrid 
eyes  looking  at  over  my  shoulder^?"  he  cried  out. 
"  Go  to  the  devil — and  take  your  infernal  slate 
with  you!"  Perry  spoke  to  him  once  more. 
"  You've  been  dreaming  of  somebody,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn. What's  to  do  about  a  slate  ?"  Geoffrey 
looked  eagerly  round  the  room,  and  heaved  a 
heavy  breath  of  relief.  "I  could  have  sworn 
she  was  staring  at  me  over  the  dwarf  pear-trees," 
he  said.  "All  right,  I  know  where  I  am  now." 
Perry  (attributing  the  dream  to  nothing  more 
important  than  a  passing  indigestion)  adminis- 
tered some  brandy  and  water,  and  left  him  to 
!  drop  off  again  to  sleep.  He  fretfully  forbade 
the  extinguishing  of  the  light.  "  Afraid  of  the 


uo 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"HE  FOUND  GEOFFREY  ROLLING  TO  AND  FRO  ON  HIS  PILLOW." 


dark  ?"  said  Perry,  with  a  laugh.  No.  He  was 
afraid  of  dreaming  again  of  the  dumb  cook  at 
Windygates  House. 


SEVENTH  SCENE.— HAM  FARM. 
CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FOURTH. 

THE    NIGHT  BKFORE. 

THE  time  was  the  night  before  the  marriage. 
The  place  was  Sir  Patrick's  house  in  Kent. 

The  lawyers  had  kept  their  word.  The  settle- 
ments had  been  forwarded,  and  had  been  signed 
two  days  since. 

With  the  exception  of  the  surgeon  and  one  of 
the  three  young  gentlemen  from  the  University, 
who  had  engagements  elsewhere,  the  visitors 
at  Windygates  had  emigrated  southward  to  be 
present  at  the  marriage.  Besides  these  gentle- 
men, there  were  some  ladies  among  the  guests 
invited  by  Sir  Patrick — all  of  them  family  con- 
nections, and  three  of  them  appointed  to  the  po- 
sition of  Blanche's  bridemaids.  Add  one  or 
two  neighbors  to  be  invited  to  the  breakfast — 
and  the  wedding-party  would  be  complete. 

There  was  nothing  architecturally  remarkable 
about  Sir  Patrick's  house.  Ham  Farm  pos- 
sessed neither  the  splendor  of  WTindygates  nor 
the  picturesque  antiquarian  attraction  of  Swan- 
haven.  It  was  a  perfectly  commonplace  En- 
glish country  seat,  surrounded  by  perfectly  com- 
monplace English  scenery.  Snug  monotony 
welcomed  you  when  you  went  in,  and  snug  mo- 
notony met  you  again  when  you  turned  to  the 
window  and  looked  out. 

The  animation  and  variety  wanting  at  Ham 
Farm  were  far  from  being  supplied  by  the  com- 


pany in  the  house.  It  was  remembered,  at  an 
after-period,  that  a  duller  wedding -party  had 
never  been  assembled  together. 

Sir  Patrick,  having  no  early  associations  with 
the  place,  openly  admitted  that  his  residence  in 
Kent  preyed  on  his  spirits,  and  that  he  would 
have  infinitely  preferred  a  room  at  the  inn  in  the 
village.  The  effort  to  sustain  his  customary  vi- 
vacity was  not  encouraged  by  persons  and  cir- 
cumstances about  him.  Lady  Lundie's  fidelity 
to  the  memory  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas,  on  the 
scene  of  his  last  illness  and  death,  persisted  in 
asserting  itself,  under  an  ostentation  of  conceal- 
ment which  tried  even  the  trained  temper  of  Sir 
Patrick  himself.  Blanche,  still  depressed  by  her 
private  anxieties  about  Anne,  was  in  no  condition 
of  mind  to  look  gayly  at  the  last  memorable  days 
of  her  maiden  life.  Arnold,  sacrificed — by  ex- 
press stipulation  on  the  part  of  Lady  Lundie — to 
the  prurient  delicacy  which  forbids  the  bride- 
groom, before  marriage,  to  sleep  in  the  same 
house  with  the  bride,  found  himself  ruthlessly 
shut  out  from  Sir  Patrick's  hospitality,  and  ex- 
iled every  night  to  a  bedroom  at  the  inn.  He 
accepted  his  solitary  doom  with  a  resignation 
which  extended  its  sobering  influence  to  his  cus- 
tomary flow  of  spirits.  As  for  the  ladies,  the 
elder  among  them  existed  in  a  state  of  chronic 
protest  against  Lady  Lundie,  and  the  younger 
were  absorbed  in  the  essentially  serious  occupa- 
tion of  considering  and  comparing  their  wed- 
ding-dresses. The  two  young  gentlemen  from 
the  University  performed  prodigies  of  yawning, 
in  the  intervals  of  prodigies  of  billiard-pliiying. 
Smith  said,  in  despair,  "There's  no  making 
things  pleasant  in  this  house,  Jones."  And 
Jones  sighed,  and  mildly  agreed  with  him. 

On  the  Sunday  evening — which  was  the  even- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


141 


ing  before  the  marriage — the  dullness,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  reached  its  climax. 

But  two  of  the  occupations  in  which  people 
may  indulge  on  week  days  are  regarded  as 
harmless  on  Sunday  by  the  obstinately  anti- 
Christian  tone  of  feeling  which  prevails  in  this 
matter  among  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  not 
sinful  to  wrangle  in  religious  controversy ;  and  it 
is  not  sinful  to  slumber  over  a  religious  book. 
The  ladies  at  Ham  Farm  practiced  the  pious  ob- 
servance of  the  evening  on  this  plan.  The  sen- 
iors of  the  sex  wrangled  in  Sunday  controversy ; 
and  the  juniors  of  the  sex  slumbered  over  Sun- 
day books.  As  for  the  men,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
say  that  the  young  ones  smoked  when  they  were 
not  yawning,  and  yawned  when  they  were  not 
smoking.  Sir  Patrick  staid  in  the  library,  sort- 
ing old  letters  and  examining  old  accounts.  Ev- 
ery person  in  the  house  felt  the  oppression  of 
the  senseless  social  prohibitions  which  they  had 
imposed  on  themselves.  And  yet  every  person 
in  the  house  would  have  been  scandalized  if  the 
plain  question  had  been  put :  You  know  this  is 
a  tyranny  of  your  own  making,  you  know  you 
don't  really  believe  in  it,  you  know  you  don't 
really  like  it — why  do  you  submit?  The  freest 
people  on  the-civilized  earth  are  the  only  people 
on  the  civilized  earth  who  dare  not  face  that 
question. 

The  evening  dragged  its  slow  length  on ;  the 
welcome  time  drew  nearer  and  nearer  for  obliv- 
ion in  bed.  Arnold  was  silently  contemplating, 
for  the  last  time,  his  customary  prospects  of  ban- 
ishment to  the  inn,  when  he  became  aware  that 
Sir  Patrick  was  making  signs  to  him.  He  rose, 
and  followed  his  host  into  the  empty  dining- 
room.  Sir  Patrick  carefully  closed  the  door. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

It  meant — so  far  as  Arnold  was  concerned — 
that  a  private  conversation  was  about  to  diversi- 
fy the  monotony  of  the  long  Sunday  evening  at 
Ham  Farm. 

"I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,  Arnold,"  the 
old  gentleman  began,  "  before  you  become  a 
married  man.  Do  you  remember  the  conversa- 
tion at  dinner  yesterday,  about  the  dancing-party 
at  Swanhaven  Lodge  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  yon  remember  what  Lady  Lundie  said 
while  the  topic  was  on  the  table  ?" 

"  She  told  me,  what  I  can't  believe,  that  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  was  going  to  be  married  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm. " 

"Exactly!  I  observed  that  you  appeared  to 
be  startled  by  what  my  sister-in-law  had  said ; 
and  when  you  declared  that  appearances  must 
certainly  have  misled  her,  you  looked  and  spoke 
(to  my  mind)  like  a  man  animated  by  a  strong 
feeling  of  indignation.  Was  I  wrong  in  drawing 
that  conclusion  ?" 

"  No,  Sir  Patrick.     You  were  right." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  tell  me  why  you 
felt  indignant  ?" 

Arnold  hesitated. 

"You  are  probably  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
interest  I  can  feel  in  the  matter  ?" 

Arnold  admitted  it  with  his  customary  frank- 
ness. 

"In  that  case,"  rejoined  Sir  Patrick,  "I  had 
better  go  on  at  once  with  the  matter  in  hand — 
leaving  you  to  see  for  yourself  the  connection 
between  what  I  am  about  to  say,  and  the  ques- 


tion that  I  have  just  put.  When  I  have  done, 
you  shall  then  reply  to  me  or  not,  exactly  as  you 
think  right.  My  dear  boy,  the  subject  on  which 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  is — Miss  Silvester. " 

Arnold  started.  Sir  Patrick  looked  at  him 
with  ti  moment's  attention,  and  went  on : 

"My  niece  has  her  faults  of  temper  and  her 
failings  of  judgment,"  he  said.  "But  she  has 
one  atoning  quality  (among  many  others)  which 
ought  to  make — and  which  I  believe  will  make 
— the  happiness  of  your  married  life.  In  the 
popular  phrase.  Blanche  is  as  true  as  steel. 
Once  her  friend,  always  her  friend.  Do  you 
see  what  I  am  coming  to?  She  has  said  no- 
thing about  it,  Arnold ;  but  she  has  not  yielded 
one  inch  in  her  resolution  to  reunite  herself  to 
Miss  Silvester.  One  of  the  first  questions  you 
will  have  to  determine,  after  to-morrow,  will  be 
the  question  of  whether  you  do,  or  not,  sanction 
your  wife  in  attempting  to  communicate  with  her 
lost  friend." 

Arnold  answered  without  the  slightest  re- 
serve. 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  Blanche's  lost  friend, 
Sir  Patrick.  My  wife  will  have  my  full  approv- 
al if  she  tries  to  bring  Miss  Silvester  back — and 
my  best  help  too,  if  I  can  give  it." 

Those  words  were  earnestly  spoken.  It  was 
plain  that  they  came  from  his  heart. 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"I  believe  you  are  encouraging  Blanche  in  a 
hopeless  effort.  I  believe  you  are  helping  her 
to  court  a  disappointment,  which  will  cast  its 
shadow  over  the  brightest  time  of  her  life.  How- 
ever, it  is  your  affair  and  not  mine.  After  what 
you  have  just  said,  my  duty  in  the  matter  seems 
plain  enough.  Do  you  wish  me  to  place  at  your 
disposal  any  special  facilities  for  tracing  Miss 
Silvester  which  I  may  happen  to  possess  ?" 

"If  you  can  help  us  over  any  obstacles  at 
starting,  Sir  Patrick,  it  will  be  a  kindness  to 
Blanche,  and  a  kindness  to  me." 

"  Very  good.  I  suppose  you  remember  what 
I  said  to  you,  one  morning,  when  we  were  talk- 
ing of  Miss  Silvester  at  Windygates  ?" 

"You  said  you  had  determined  to  let  her  go 
her  own  way." 

"Quite  right!  On  the  evening  of  the  day 
when  1  said  that  I  received  information  that 
Miss  Silvester  had  been  traced  to  Glasgow. 
You  won't  require  me  to  explain  why  I  never 
mentioned  this  to  you  or  to  Blanche.  In  men- 
tioning it  now,  I  communicate  to  you  the  only 
positive  information,  on  the  subject  of  the  miss- 
ing woman,  which  I  possess.  There  are  two 
other  chances  of  finding  her  (of  a  more  specula- 
tive kind)  which  can  only  be  tested  by  inducing 
two  men  (both  equally  difficult  to  deal  with)  to 
confess  what  they  know.  One  of  those  two  men 
is — a  person  named  BishopriggsJ'  formerly  wait- 
er at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. " 

Arnold  started,  and  changed  color.  Sir  Pat- 
rick (silently  noticing  him)  stated  the  circum- 
stances relating  to  Anne's  lost  letter,  and  to  the 
conclusion  in  his  own  mind  which  pointed  to 
Bishopriggs  as  the  person  in  possession  of  it. 

"  I  have  to  add,"  he  proceeded, ' '  that  Blanche, 
unfortunately,  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  Bishopriggs  at  Swanhaven.  When  she  and 
Lady  Lundie  joined  us  at  Edinburgh  she  show- 
ed me  privately  a  card  which  had  been  given  to 
her  by  Bishopriggs.  He  had  described  it  as  the 


142 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


address  at  which  he  might  be  heard  of — and 
Blanche  entreated  me,  before  we  started  for 
London,  to  put  the  reference  to  the  test.  I  told 
her  that  she  had  committed  a  serious  mistake  in 
attempting  to  deal  with  Bishopriggs  on  her  own 
responsibility ;  and  I  warned  her  of  the  result  in 
which  I  was  firmly  persuaded  the  inquiry  would 
end.  She  declined  to  believe  that  Bishopriggs 
had  deceived  her.  I  saw  that  she  would  take 
the  matter  into  her  own  hands  again  unless  I  in- 
terfered ;  and  I  went  to  the  place.  Exactly  as 
I  had  anticipated,  the  person  to  whom  the  card 
referred  me  had  not  heard  of  Bishopriggs  for 
years,  and  knew  nothing  whatever  about  his 
present  movements.  Blanche  had  simply  put 
him  on  his  guard,  and  shown  him  the  propriety 
of  keeping  out  of  the  way.  If  you  should  ever 
meet  with  him  in  the  future — say  nothing  to 
your  wife,  and  communicate  with  me.  I  decline 
to  assist  you  in  searching  for  Miss  Silvester ;  but 
I  have  no  objection  to  assist  in  recovering  a  stolen 
letter  from  a  thief.  So  much  for  Bishopriggs. — 
Now  as  to  the  other  man." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Your  friend,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Arnold  sprang  to  his  feet  in  ungovernable  sur- 
prise. 

"I  appear  to  astonish  you,"  remarked  Sir 
Patrick. 

Arnold  sat  down  again,  and  waited,  in  speech- 
less suspense,  to  hear  what  was  coming  next. 

"I  have  reason  to  know,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
' '  that  Mr.  Delamayn  is  thoroughly  well  acquaint- 
ed with  the  nature  of  Miss  Silvester's  present 
troubles.  What  his  actual  connection  is  with 
them,  and  how  he  came  into  possession  of  his 
information,  I  have  not  found  out.  My  dis- 
covery begins  and  ends  with  the  simple  fact  that 
he  has  the  information." 

"  May  I  ask  one  question,  Sir  Patrick?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"How  did  you  find  out  about  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn ?" 

"It  would  occupy  a  long  time,"  answered  Sir 
Patrick,  ' '  to  tell  you  how — and  it  is  not  at  all 
necessary  to  our  purpose  that  you  should  know. 
My  present  obligation  merely  binds  me  to  tell 
you — in  strict  confidence,  mind ! — that  Miss  Sil- 
vester's secrets  are  no  secrets  to  Mr.  Delamayn. 
I  leave  to  your  discretion  the  use  you  may  make 
of  that  information.  You  are  now  entirely  on  a 
par  with  me  in  relation  to  your  knowledge  of  the 
case  of  Miss  Silvester.  Let  us  return  to  the 
question  which  I  asked  you  when  we  first  came 
into  the  room.  Do  you  see  the  connection, 
now,  between  that  question,  and  what  I  have 
said  since  ?" 

Arnold  was  slow  to  see  the  connection.  His 
mind  was  running  on  Sir  Patrick's  discovery. 
Little  dreaming  that  he  was  indebted  to  Mrs. 
Inchbare's  incomplete  description  of  him  for  his 
own  escape  from  detection,  he  was  wondering 
how  it  had  happened  that  he  had  remained  un- 
suspected, while  Geoffrey's  position  had  been  (in 
part  at  least)  revealed  to  view. 

"I  asked  you,"  resumed  Sir  Patrick,  attempt- 
ing to  help  him,  "why  the  mere  report  that  your 
friend  was  likely  to  marry  Mrs.  Glenarm  roused 
your  indignation,  and  you  hesitated  at  giving  an 
answer.  Do  you  hesitate  still  ?" 

"It's  not  easy  to  give  an  answer,  Sir  Pat- 
rick. " 


"Let  us  put  it  in  another  way.  I  assume  that 
your  view  of  the  report  takes  its  rise  in  some 
knowledge,  on  your  part,  of  Mr.  Delamayn's  pri- 
vate affairs,  which  the  rest  of  us  don't  possess. — 
Is  that  conclusion  correct  ?" 

"Quite  correct." 

"Is  what  you  know  about  Mr.  Delamayn. con- 
nected with  any  thing  that  you  know  about  Miss 
Silvester?" 

If  Arnold  had  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  answer 
that  question,  Sir  Patrick's  suspicions  would  have 
been  aroused,  and  Sir  Patrick's  resolution  would 
have  forced  a  full  disclosure  from  him  before  he 
left  the  house. 

It  was  getting  on  to  midnight.     The  first  hour 
of  the  wedding-day  was  at  hand,  as  the  Truth 
made  its  final  effort  to  struggle  into  light.     The 
dark  Phantoms  of  Trouble  and  Terror  to  come 
were  waiting  near  them  both  at  that  moment. 
Arnold  hesitated  again — hesitated  painfully.    Sir 
Patrick  paused  for  his  answer.    The  clock  in  the 
hall  struck  the  quarter  to  twelve. 
'I  can't  tell  you !"  said  Arnold. 
'  Is  it  a  secret  ?" 
'Yes." 

'  Committed  to  your  honor?" 
'  Doubly  committed  to  my  honor." 
'  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

'I  mean  that  Geoffrey  and  I  have  quarreled 
since  he  took  me  into  his  confidence.  I  am 
doubly  bound  to  respect  his  confidence  after 
that." 

"Is  the  cause  of  your  quarrel  a  secret  also?" 

"Yes." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  Arnold  steadily  in  the 
face. 

"I  have  felt  an  inveterate  distrust  of  Mr. 
Delamayn  from  the  first, "he  said.  "Answer 
me  this.  Have  yon  any  reason  to  think — since 
we  first  talked  about  your  friend  in  the  summer- 
house  at  Windygates — that  my  opinion  of  him 
might  have  been  the  right  one  after  all  ?" 

"He  has  bitterly  disappointed  me,"  answered 
Arnold.  "I  can  say  no  more." 

"You  have  had  very  little  experience  of  the 
world,"  proceeded  Sir  Patrick.  "And  you  have 
just  acknowledged  that  you  have  had  reason  to 
distrust  your  experience  of  your  friend.  Are 
you  quite  sure  that  you  are  acting  wisely  in 
keeping  his  secret  from  me?  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  you  will  not  repent  the  course  you  are 
taking  to-night?"  He  laid  a  marked  emphasis 
on  those  last  words.  "  Think,  Arnold,"  he  add- 
ed, kindly.  "  Think  before  you  answer." 

"I  feel  bound  in  honor  to  keep  his  secret," 
said  Arnold.  "No  thinking  can  alter  that." 

Sir  Patrick  rose,  and  brought  the  interview  to 
an  end. 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said."  With 
those  words  he  gave  Arnold  his  hand,  and, 
pressing  it  cordially,  wished  him  good-night. 

Going  out  into  the  hall,  Arnold  found  Blanche 
alone,  looking  at  the  barometer. 

"The  glass  is  at  Set  Fair,  my  darling,"  he 
whispered.  "  Good-night  for  the  last  time !" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her.  At 
the  moment  when  he  released  her  Blanche 
slipped  a  little  note  into  his  hand. 

"Read  it,"  she  whispered,  "when  you  are 
alone  at  the  inn. " 

So  they  parted  on  the  eve  of  their  wedding- 
day. 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


143 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIFTH. 

THE    DAY. 

THE  promise  of  the  weather-glass  was  fulfilled. 
The  sun  shone  on  Blanche's  marriage. 

At  nine  in  the  morning  the  first  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  day  began.  It  was  essentially  of  a 
clandestine  nature.  The  bride  and  bridegroom 
evaded  the  restraints  of  lawful  authority,  and 
presumed  to  meet  together  privately,  before  they 
were  married,  in  the  conservatory  at  Ham  Farm. 

"You  have  read  my  letter,  Arnold?" 

"I  have  come  here  to  answer  it,  Blanche. 
But  why  not  have  told  me  ?  Why  write  ?" 

"Because  I  put  off  telling  you  so  long;  and 
because  I  didn't  know  how  you  might  take  it; 
and  for  fifty  other  reasons.  Never  mind !  I've 
made  my  confession.  I  haven't  a  single  secret 
now  which  is  not  your  secret  too.  There's  time 
to  say  No,  Arnold,  if  you  think  I  ought  to  have 
no  room  in  my  heart  for  any  body  but  you.  My 
uncle  tells  me  I  am  obstinate  and  wrong  in  re- 
fusing to  give  Anne  up.  If  you  agree  with  him, 
say  the  word,  dear,  before  you  make  me  your  wife." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  said  to  Sir  Patrick 
last  night?" 

"About  this?" 

"Yes.  The  confession  (as  you  call  it)  which 
yon  make  in  your  pretty  note,  is  the  very  thing 
that  Sir  Patrick  spoke  to  me  about  in  the  dining- 
room  before  I  went  away.  He  told  me  your  heart 
was  set  on  finding  Miss  Silvester.  And  he  asked 
me  what  I  meant  to  do  about  it  when  we  were 
married." 

"And  you  said — ?" 

Arnold  repeated  his  answer  to  Sir  Patrick, 
with  fervid  embellishments  of  the  original  lan- 
guage, suitable  to  the  emergency.  Blanche's 
delight  expressed  itself  in  the  form  of  two  un- 
blushing outrages  on  propriety,  committed  in 
close  succession.  She  threw  her  arms  round 
Arnold's  neck ;  and  she  actually  kissed  him, 
three  hours  before  the  consent  of  State  and 
Church  sanctioned  her  in  taking  that  proceed- 
ing. Let  us  shudder — but  let  us  not  blame  her. 
These  are  the  consequences  of  free  institutions. 

"Now, "said  Arnold,  "it's  my  turn  to  take 
to  pen  and  ink.  I  have  a  letter  to  write  before 
we  are  married  as  well  as  you.  Only  there's  this 
difference  between  us — 1  want  you  to  help  me." 

"Who  are  you  going  to  write  to?" 

"To  my  lawyer  in  Edinburgh.  There  will  be 
no  time  unless  I  do  it  now.  We  start  for  Switz- 
erland this  afternoon — don't  we  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  I  want  to  relieve  your  mind, 
my  darling,  before  we  go.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  know — while  we  are  away — that  the  right 
people  are  on  the  look-out  for  Miss  Silvester? 
Sir  Patrick  has  told  me  of  the  last  place  that 
she  has  been  traced  to — and  my  lawyer  will  set 
the  right  people  at  work.  Come  and  help  me 
to  put  it  in  the  proper  language,  and  the  whole 
thing  will  be  in  train. " 

"  Oh,  Arnold !  can  I  ever  love  you  enough  to 
reward  you  for  this !" 

"  We  shall  see,  Blanche — in  Switzerland." 

They  audaciously  penetrated,  arm  in  arm,  into 
Sir  Patrick's  own  study — entirely  at  their  dispos- 
al, as  they  well  knew,  at  that  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing. With  Sir  Patrick's  pens  and  Sir  Patrick's 
paper  they  produced  a  letter  of  instructions,  de- 


liberately reopening  the  investigation  which  Sir 
Patrick's  superior  wisdom  had  closed.  Neither 
pains  nor  money  were  to  be  spared  by  the  lawyer 
in  at  once  taking  measures  (beginning  at  Glas- 
gow) to  find  Anne.  The  report  of  the  result 
was  to  be  addressed  to  Arnold,  under  cover  to 
Sir  Patrick  at  Ham  Farm.  By  the  time  the 
letter  was  completed  the  morning  had  advanced 
to  ten  o'clock.  Blanche  left  Arnold  to  array  her- 
self in  her  bridal  splendor — after  another  outrage 
on  propriety,  and  more  consequences  of  free  in- 
stitutions. 

The  next  proceedings  were  of  a  public  and 
avowable  nature,  and  strictly  followed  the  cus- 
tomary precedents  on  such  occasions. 

Village  nymphs  strewed  flowers  on  the  path 
to  the  church  door  (and  sent  in  the  bill  the  same 
day).  Village  swains  rang  the  joy-bells  (and  got 
drunk  on  their  money  the  same  evening).  There 
was  the  proper  and  awful  pause  while  the  bride- 
groom was  kept  waiting  at  the  church.  There 
was  the  proper  and  pitiless  staring  of  all  the  fe- 
male spectators  when  the  bride  was  led  to  the 
altar.  There  was  the  clergyman's  preliminary 
look  at  the  license — which  meant  official  caution. 
And  there  was  the  clerk's  preliminary  look  at 
the  bridegroom — which  meant  official  fees.  All 
the  women  appeared  to  be  in  their  natual  ele- 
ment ;  and  all  the  men  appeared  to  be  out  of  it. 

Then  the  service  began — rightly-considered, 
the  most  terrible,  surely,  of  all  mortal  ceremo- 
nies— the  service  which  binds  two  human  beings, 
who  know  next  to  nothing  of  each  other's  na- 
tures, to  risk  the  tremendous  experiment  of  liv- 
ing together  till  death  parts  them — the  service 
which  says,  in  effect  if  not  in  words,  Take  your 
leap  in  the  dark :  we  sanctify,  but  we  don't  in- 
sure, it! 

The  ceremony  went  on,  without  the  slightest 
obstacle  to  mar  its  effect.  There  were  no  un- 
foreseen interruptions.  There  were  no  ominous 
mistakes. 

The  last  words  were  spoken,  and  the  book 
was  closed.  They  signed  their  names  on  the 
register ;  the  husband  was  congratulated ;  the 
wife  was  embraced.  They  went  back  again  to 
the  house,  with  more  flowers  strewn  at  their  feet. 
The  wedding-breakfast  was  hurried;  the  wed- 
ding-speeches were  curtailed :  there  was  no  time 
to  be  wasted,  if  the  young  couple  were  to  catch 
the  tidal  train. 

In  an  hour  more  the  carriage  had  whirled 
them  away  to  the  station,  and  the  guests  had 
given  them  the  farewell  cheer  from  the  steps  of 
the  house.  Young,  happy,  fondly  attached  to 
each  other,  raised  securely  above  all  the  sordid 
cares  of  life,  what  a  golden  future  was  theirs ! 
Married  with  the  sanction  of  the  Family  and  the 
blessing  of  the  Church — who  could  suppose  that 
the  time  was  coming,  nevertheless,  when  the 
blighting  question  would  fall  on'  them,  in  the 
spring-time  of  their  love:  Are  you  Man  and 
Wife? 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SIXTH. 

THE   TRUTH   AT   LAST. 

Two  days  after  the  marriage — on  Wednesday, 
the  ninth  of  September — a  packet  of  letters,  re- 
ceived at  Windygates,  was  forwarded  by  Lady 
Lundie's  steward  to  Ham  Farm. 


144 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


With  one  exception,  the  letters  were  all  ad- 
dressed either  to  Sir  Patrick  or  to  his  sister-in- 
law.  The  one  exception  was  directed  to  "Ar- 
nold Brinkworth,  Esq.,  care  of  Lady  Lundie, 
Windygates  House,  Perthshire" — and  the  en- 
velope was  specially  protected  by  a  seal. 

Noticing  that  the  post-mark  was  "Glasgow," 
Sir  Patrick  (to  whom  the  letter  had  been  de- 
livered) looked  with  a  certain  distrust  at  the 
handwriting  on  the  address.  It  was  not  known 
to  him — but  it  was  obviously  the  handwriting  of 
a  woman.  Lady  Lundie  was  sitting  opposite  to 
him  at  the  table.  He  said,  carelessly,  "A  let- 
ter for  Arnold" — and  pushed  it  across  to  her. 
Her  ladyship  took  up  the  letter,  and  dropped  it, 
the  instant  she  looked  at  the  handwriting,  as  if 
it  had  burned  her  fingers. 

"  The  Person  again !"  exclaimed  Lady  Lun- 
die. "The  Person,  presuming  to  address  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth,  at  My  house!" 

' '  Miss  Silvester  ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"No,"  said  her  ladyship,  shutting  her  teeth 
with  a  snap.  "The  Person  may  insult  me  by 
addressing  a  letter  to  my  care.  But  the  Per- 
son's name  shall  not  pollute  my  lips.  Not  even 
in  your  house,  Sir  Patrick.  Not  even  to  please 
you." 

Sir  Patrick  was  sufficiently  answered.  After 
all  that  had  happened — after  her  farewell  letter 
to  Blanche — -here  was  Miss  Silvester  writing  to 
Blanche's  husband,  of  her  own  accord!  It  was 
unaccountable,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He  took 
the  letter  back,  and  looked  at  it  again.  Lady 
Lundie's  steward  was  a  methodical  man.  He 
had  indorsed  each  letter  received  at  Windygates 
with  the  date  of  its  -delivery.  The  letter  ad- 
dressed to  Arnold  had  been  delivered  on  Mon- 
day, the  seventh  of  September — on  Arnold's  wed- 
ding-day. 

What  did  it  mean  ? 

It  was  pure  waste  of  time  to  inquire.  Sir 
Patrick  rose  to  lock  the  letter  up  in  one  of  the 
drawers  of  the  writing-table  behind  him.  Lady 
Lundie  interfered  (in  the  interest  of  morality). 

"Sir  Patrick!" 

"Yes?" 

"  Don't  you  consider  it  vour  duty  to  open  that 
letter  ?" 

"My  dear  lady!  what  can  you  possibly  be 
thinking  of?" 

The  mos-t  virtuous  of  living  women  had  her 
answer  ready  on  the  spot. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  said  Lady  Lundie,  "  of  Ar- 
nold's moral  welfare." 

Sir  Patrick  smiled.  On  the  long  list  of  those 
respectable  disguises  under  which  we  assert  our 
own  importance,  or  gratify  our  own  love  of  med- 
dling in  our  neighbor's  affairs,  a  moral  regard 
for  the  welfare  of  others  figures  in  the  foremost 
place,  and  stands  deservedly  as  number  one. 

"  We  shall  probably  hear  from  Arnold  in  a 
day  or  two,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  locking  the  letter 
up  in  the  drawer.  "  He  shall  have  it  as  soon  as 
I  know  where  to  send  it  to  him." 

The  next  morning  brought  news  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom. 

They  reported  themselves  to  be  too  supremely 
happy  to  care  where  they  lived,  so  long  as  they 
lived  together.  Every  question  but  the  question 
of  Love  was  left  in  the  competent  hands  of  their 
courier.  This  sensible  and  trust-worthy  man  had 
decided  that  Paris  was  not  to  be  thought  of  as  a 


place  of  residence,  by  any  sane  human  being,  in 
the  month  of  September.  He  had  arranged  that 
they  were  to  leave  for  Baden — on  their  wav  to 
Switzerland — on  the  tenth.  Letters  were  ac- 
cordingly to  be  addressed  to  that  place,  until 
further  notice.  If  the  courier  liked  Baden,  they 
would  probably  stay  there  for  some  time.  If  the 
courier  took  a  fancy  for  the  mountains,  they 
would  in  that  case  go  on  to  Switzerland.  In  the 
mean  while  nothing  mattered  to  Arnold  but 
Blanche — and  nothing  mattered  to  Blanche  but 
Arnold. 

Sir  Patrick  re-directed  Anne  Silvester's  letter 
to  Arnold,  at  the  Poste  Restante,  Baden.  A 
second  letter,  which  had  arrived  that  morning 
(addressed  to  Arnold  in  a  legal  handwriting,  and 
bearing  the  post-mark  of  Edinburgh),  was  for- 
warded in  the  same  way,  and  at  the  same  time. 

Two  days  later  Ham  Farm  was  deserted  by 
the  guests.  Lady  Lundie  had  gone  back  to 
Windygates.  The  rest  had  separated  in  their 
different  directions.  Sir  Patrick,  who  also  con- 
templated returning  to  Scotland,  remained  be- 
hind for  a  week — a  solitary  prisoner  in  his  own 
country  house.  Accumulated  arrears  of  busi- 
ness, with  which  it  was  impossible  for  his  stew- 
ard to  deal  single-handed,  obliged  him  to  remain 
at  his  estates  in  Kent  for  that  time.  To  a  man 
without  a  taste  for  partridge-shooting  the  ordeal 
was  a  trying  one.  Sir  Patrick  got  through  the 
day  with  the  help  of  his  business  and  his  books. 
In  the  evening  the  rector  of  a  neighboring  parish 
drove  over  to  dinner,  and  engaged  his  host  at  the 
noble  but  obsolete  game  of  Piquet.  They  ar- 
ranged to  meet  at  each  other's  houses  on  altern- 
ate days.  The  rector  was  an  admirable  player ; 
and  Sir  Patrick,  though  a  born  Presbyterian, 
blessed  the  Church  of  England  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart. 

Three  more  days  passed.  Business  at  Ham 
Farm  began  to  draw  to  an  end.  The  time  for 
Sir  Patrick's  journey  to  Scotland  came  nearer. 
The  two  partners  at  Piquet  agreed  to  meet  for  a 
final  game,  on  the  next  night,  at  the  rector's 
house.  But  (let  us  take  comfort  in  remembering 
it)  our  superiors  in  Church  and  State  are  as  cofn- 
pletely  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances  as  the 
humblest  and  the  poorest  of  us.  That  last  game 
of  Piquet  between  the  baronet  and  the  parson 
was  never  to  be  played. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  Sir  Patrick 
came  in  from  a  drive,  and  found  a  letter  from 
Arnold  waiting  for  him,  which  had  been  deliv- 
ered by  the  second  post. 

Judged  by  externals  only,  it  was  a  letter  of 
an  unusually  perplexing — possibly  also  of  an  un- 
usually interesting — kind.  Arnold  was  one  of 
the  last  persons  in  the  world  whom  any  of  his 
friends-  would  have  suspected  of  being  a  lengthy 
correspondent.  Here,  nevertheless,  was  a  letter 
from  him,  of  three  times  the  customary  bulk  and 
weight — and,  apparently,  of  more  than  common 
importance,  in  the  matter  of  news,  besides.  At 
the  top  the  envelope  was  marked  "Immediate." 
And  at  one  side  (also  underlined)  was  the  omin- 
ous word,  " Private." 

"Nothing  wrong,  I  hope?"  thought  Sir  Pat- 
rick. 

He  opened  the  envelope. 

Two  inclosures  fell  out  on  the  table.  He 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment.  They  were  the 
two  letters  which  he  had  forwarded  to  Baden. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


145 


The  third  letter  remaining  in  his  hand,  and  oc- 
cupying a  double  sheet,  was  from  Arnold  himself. 
Sir  Patrick  read  Arnold's  letter  first.  It  was 
dated  "  Baden,"  and  it  began  as  follows : 

"  My  Dear  Sir  Patrick, — Don't  be  alarmed, 
if  you  can  possibly  help  it.  I  am  in  a  terrible 
mess. " 

Sir  Patrick  looked  up  for  a  moment  from  the 
letter.  Given  a  young  man  who  dates  from 
"Baden, "and  declares  himself  to  be  in  "a  ter- 
rible mess,"  as  representing  the  circumstances  of 
the  case — what  is  the  interpretation  to  be  placed 
on  them  ?  Sir  Patrick  drew  the  inevitable  con- 
clusion. Arnold  had  been  gambling. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  the  let- 
ter. 

"  I  must  say,  dreadful  as  it  is,  that  I  am  not 
to  blame — nor  she  either,  poor  thing." 

Sir  Patrick  paused  again.  "She?"  Blanche 
had  apparently  been  gambling  too?  Nothing 
was  wanting  to  complete  the  picture  but  an  an- 
nouncement in  the  next  sentence,  presenting  the 
courier  as  earned  away,  in  his  turn,  by  the  insa- 
tiate passion  for  play.  Sir  Patrick  resumed : 

"  You  can  not,  I  am  sure,  expect  me  to  have 
known  the  law.  And  as  for  poor  Miss  Silves- 
ter— '' 

"Miss  Silvester?"  What  had  Miss  Silvester 
to  do  with  it  ?  And  what  could  be  the  meaning 
of  the  reference  to  "the  law?" 

Sir  Patrick  had  read  the  letter,  thus  far,  stand- 
ing up.  A  vague  distrust  stole  over  him  at  the 
appearance  of  Miss  Silvester's  name  in  connec- 
tion with  the  lines  which  had  preceded  it.  He 
felt  nothing  approaching  to  a  clear  prevision  of 
what  was  to  come.  Some  indescribable  influence 
was  at  work  in  him,  which  shook  his  nerves,  and 
made  him  feel  the  infirmities  of  his  age  (as  it 
seemed)  on  a  sudden.  It  went  no  further  than 
that.  He  was  obliged  to  sit  down :  he  was 
obliged  to  wait  a  moment  before  he  went  on. 

The  letter  proceeded,  in  these  words : 

"  And,  as  for  poor  Miss  Silvester,  though  she 
felt,  as  she  reminds  me,  some  misgivings — still, 
she  never  could  have  foreseen,  being  no  lawyer 
either,  how  it  was  to  end.  I  hardly  know  the 
best  way  to  break  it  to  you.  I  can't,  and  won't, 
believe  it  myself.  But  even  if  it  should  be  true, 
I  am  quite  sure  you  will  find  a  way  out  of  it  for 
us.  I  will  stick  at  nothing,  and  Miss  Silvester 
(as  you  will  see  by  her  letter)  will  stick  at  no- 
thing either,  to  set  things  right.  Of  course,  I 
have  not  said  one  word  to  my  darling  Blanche, 
who  is  quite  happy,  and  suspects  nothing.  All 
this,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  is  very  badly  written,  I  am 
afraid,  but  it  is  meant  to  prepare  you,  and  to 
put  the  best  side  on  matters  at  starting.  How- 
ever, the  truth  must  be  told — and  shame  on  the 
Scotch  law  is  what  /  say.  This  it  is,  in  short : 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  is  even  a  greater  scoundrel 
than  you  think  him ;  and  I  bitterly  repent  (as 
things  have  turned  out)  having  held  my  tongue 
that  night  when  you  and  I  had  our  private  talk 
at  Ham  Farm.  You  will  think  I  am  mixing  two 
things  up  together.  But  I  am  not.  Please  to 
keep  this  about  Geoffrey  in  your  mind,  and  piece 
it  together  with  what  I  have  next  to  say.  The 
worst  is  still  to  come.  Miss  Silvester's  letter 
(inclosed)  tells  me  this  terrible  thing.  You  must 
know  that  I  went  to  her  privately,  as  Geoffrey's 
messenger,  on  the  day  of  the  lawn-party  at  Win- 
dygates.  Well — how  it  could  have  happened, 


Heaven  only  knows — but  there  is  reason  to  fear 
that  I  married  her,  without  being  aware  of  it  my- 
self, in  August  last,  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn." 

The  letter  dropped  from  Sir  Patrick's  hand. 
He  sank  back  in  the  chair,  stunned  for  the  mo- 
ment, ur.der  the  shock  that  had  fallen  on  him. 

He  rallied,  and  rose  bewildered  to  his  feet. 
He  took  a  turn  in  the  room.  He  stopped,  and 
summoned  his  will,  and  steadied  himself  by  main 
force.  He  picked  up  the  letter,  and  read  the 
last  sentence  again.  His  face  flushed.  He  was 
on  the  point  of  yielding  himself  to  a  useless  out- 
burst of  anger  against  Arnold,  when  his  better 
sense  checked  him  at  the  last  moment.  "One 
fool  in  the  family  is  enough,"  he  said.  "My 
business  in  this  dreadful  emergency  is  to  keep 
my  head  clear  for  Blanche's  sake." 

He  waited  once  more,  to  make  sure  of  his  own 
composure — and  turned  again  to  the  letter,  to  see 
what  the  writer  had  to  say  for  himself,  in  the  way 
of  explanation  and  excuse. 

Arnold  had  plenty  to  say — with  the  drawback 
of  not  knowing  how  to  say  it.  It  was  hard  to  de- 
cide which  quality  in  his  letter  was  most  marked 
— the  total  absence  of  arrangement,  or  the  total 
absence  of  reserve.  Without  beginning,  middle, 
or  end,  he  told  the  story  of  his  fatal  connection 
with  the  troubles  of  Anne  Silvester,  from  the 
memorable  day  when  Geoffrey  Delamayn  sent 
him  to  Craig  Fernie,  to  the  equally  memorable 
night  when  Sir  Patrick  had  tried  vainly  to  make 
him  open  his  lips  at  Ham  Farm. 

"  I  own  I  have  behaved  like  a  fool,"  the  let- 
ter concluded,  "in  keeping  Geoffrey  Delamayn's 
secret  for  him — as  things  have  turned  out.  But 
how  could  I  tell  upon  him  without  compromising 
Miss  Silvester?  Read  her  letter,  and  you  will 
see  what  she  says,  and  how  generously  she  re- 
leases me.  It's  no  use  saying  I  am  sorry  I  wasn't 
more  cautions.  The  mischief  is  done,  I'll  stick 
at  nothing — as  I  have  said  before — to  undo  it. 
Only  tell  me  what  is  the  first  step  I  am  to  take ; 
and,  as  long  as  it  don't  part  me  from  Blanche, 
rely  on  my  taking  it.  Waiting  to  hear  from 
you,  I  remain,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  yours  in  great 
perplexity,  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

Sir  Patrick  folded  the  letter,  and  looked  at  the 
two  inclosures  lying  on  the  table.  His  eye  was 
hard,  his  brow  was  frowning,  as  he  put  his  hand 
to  take  up  Anne's  letter.  The  letter  from  Ar- 
nold's agent  in  Edinburgh  lay  nearer  to  him. 
As  it  happened,  he  took  that  first.  % 

It  was  short  enough,  and  clearly  enough  writ- 
ten, to  invite  a  reading  before  he  put  it  down 
again.  The  lawyer  reported  that  he  had  made 
the  necessary  inquiries  at  Glasgow,  with  this  re- 
sult. Anne  had  been  traced  to  The  Sheep's 
Head  Hotel.  She  had  lain  there  utterly  help- 
less, from  illness,  until  the  beginning  of  Septem- 
ber. She  had  been  advertised,  \yjthout  result, 
in  the  Glasgow  newspapers.  On  the  5th  of 
September  she  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  be 
able  to  leave  the  hotel.  She  had  been  seen  at 
the  railway  station  on  the  same  day — but  from 
that  point  all  trace  of  her  had  been  lost  once 
more.  The  lawyer  had  accordingly  stopped  the 
proceedings,  and  now  waited  further  instructions 
from  his  client. 

This  letter  was  not  without  its  effect  in  en- 
couraging Sir  Patrick  to  suspend  the  harsh  and 
hasty  judgment  of  Anne,  which  any  man,  placed 
in  his  present  situation,  must  have  been  inclined 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


to  form.  Her  illness  claimed  its  small  share  of 
sympathy.  Her  friendless  position — so  plainly 
and  so  sadly  revealed  by  the  advertising  in  the 
newspapers — pleaded  for  merciful  construction 
of  faults  committed,  if  faults  there  were.  Grave- 
ly, but  not  angrily,  Sir  Patrick  opened  her  letter 
— the  letter  that  cast  a  doubt  on  his  niece's  mar- 
riage. 

Thus  Anne  Silvester  wrote : 

"  GLASGOW,  September  5. 

"DEAR  MR.  BRINKWORTH, — Nearly  three 
weeks  since  I  attempted  to  write  to  you  from 
this  place.  I  was  seized  by  sudden  illness  while 
I  was  engaged  over  my  letter ;  and  from  that 
time  to  this  I  have-  laid  helpless  in  bed — very 
near,  as  they  tell  me,  to  death.  I  was  strong 
enough  to  be  dressed,  and  to  sit  up  for  a  little 
while  yesterday  and  the  day  before.  To-day,  I 
have  made  a  better  advance  toward  recovery. 
I  can  hold  my  pen  and  control  my  thoughts. 
The  first  use  to  which  I  put  this  improvement  is 
to  write  these  lines. 

"I  am  going  (so  far  as  I  know)  to  surprise — 
possibly  to  alarm — you.  There  is  no  escaping 
from  it,  for  you  or  for  me :  it  must  be  done. 

"  Thinking  of  how  best  to  introduce  what  I 
am  now  obliged  to  say,  I  can  find  no  better  way 
than  this.  I  must  ask  you  to  take  your  memory 
back  to  a  day  which  we  have  both  bitter  reason 
to  regret — the  day  when  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
sent  you  to  see  me  at  the  inn  at  Craig  Fernie. 

"  You  may  possibly  not  remember — it  unhap- 
pily produced  no  impression  on  you  at  the  time 
— that  I  felt,  and  expressed,  more  than  once  on 
that  occasion,  a  very  great  dislike  to  your  pass- 
ing me  off  on  the  people  of  the  inn  as  your  wife. 
It  was  necessary  to  my  being  permitted  to  remain 
at  Craig  Fernie  that  you  should  do  so.  I  knew 
this ;  but  still  I  shrank  from  it.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  me  to  contradict  you,  without  involving 
you  in  the  painful  consequences,  and  running  the 
risk  of  making  a  scandal  which  might  find  its 
way  to  Blanche's  ears.  I  knew  this  also;  but 
still  my  conscience  reproached  me.  It  was  a 
vague  feeling.  I  was  quite  unaware  of  the  act- 
ual danger  in  which  you  were  placing  yourself, 
or  I  would  have  spoken  out,  no  matter  what  came 
of  it.  I  had  what  is  called  a  presentiment  that 
you  were  not  acting  discreetly — nothing  more. 
As  I  love  and  honor  my  mother's  memory — as  I 
trust  m  the  mercy  of  God — this  is  the  truth. 

"You  left  the  inn  the  next  morning,  and  we 
have  not  met  since. 

' '  A  few  days  after  you  went  away  my  anx- 
ieties grew  more  than  I  could  bear  alone.  I 
went  secretly  to  Windygates,  and  had  an  inter- 
view with  Blanche. 

"  She  was  absent  for  a  few  minutes  from  the 
room  in  which  we  had  met.  In  that  interval  I 
saw  Geoffrey  Delamayn  for  the  first  time  since 
I  had  left  him  at  Lady  Lundie's  lawn-party. 
He  treated  me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  found  out  all  that  had  passed  be- 
tween us  at  the  inn.  He  said  he  had  taken  a 
lawyer's  opinion.  Oh,  Mr.  Brinkworth!  how 
can  I  break  it  to  you?  how  can  I  write  the 
words  which  repeat  what  he  said  to  me  next? 
It  must  be  done.  Cruel  as  it  is,  it  must  be  done. 
He  refused  to  my  face  to  marry  me.  He  said  I 
was  married  already.  He  said  I  was  your  wife. 

"  Now  you  know  why  I  have  referred  you  to 


what  I  felt  (and  confessed  to  feeling)  when  we 
were  together  at  Craig  Fernie.  If  you  think 
hard  thoughts,  and  say  hard  words  of  me,  I  can 
claim  no  right  to  blame  you.  I  am  innocent — 
and  yet  it  is  my  fault. 

"  My  head  swims,  and  the  foolish  tears  are 
rising  in  spite  of  me.  I  must  leave  off,  and  rest 
a  little. 

"I  have  been  sitting  at  the  window,  and 
watching  the  people  in  the  street  as  they  go  by. 
They  are  all  strangers.  But,  somehow,  the  sight 
of  them  seems  to  rest  my  mind.  The  hum  of 
the  great  city  gives  me  heart,  and  helps  me  to 
go  on. 

"  I  can  not  trust  myself  to  write  of  the  man 
who  has  betrayed  us  both.  Disgraced  and  bro- 
ken as  I  am,  there  is  something  still  left  in  me 
which  lifts  me  above  him.  If  he  came  repent- 
ant, at  this  moment,  and  offered  me  all  that 
rank  and  wealth  and  worldly  consideration  can 
give,  I  would  rather  be  what  I  am  now  than  be 
his  wife. 

"Let  me  speak  of  you;  and  (for  Blanche's 
sake)  let  me  speak  of  myself. 

"  I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have  waited  to  see  you 
at  Windygates,  and  to  have  told  you  at  once  of 
what  had  happened.  But  I  was  weak  and  ill ; 
and  the  shock  of  hearing  what  I  heard  fell  so 
heavily  on  me  that  I  fainted.  After  I  came  to 
myself  I  was  so  horrified,  when  I  thought  of  you 
and  Blanche,  that  a  sort  of  madness  possessed 
me.  I  had  but  one  idea — the  idea  of  running 
away  and  hiding  myself. 

' '  My  mind  got  clearer  and  quieter  on  the  way 
to  this  place ;  and,  arrived  here,  I  did  what  I 
hope  and  believe  was  the  best  thing  I  could  do. 
I  consulted  two  lawyers.  They  differed  in  opin- 
ion as  to  whether  we  were  married  or  not — ac- 
cording to  the  law  which  decides  on  such  things 
in  Scotland.  The  first  said  Yes.  The  second 
said  No — but  advised  me  to  write  immediately 
and  tell  you  the  position  in  which  you  stood.  I 
attempted  to  write  the  same  day,  and  fell  ill  as 
you  know. 

"Thank  God,  the  delay  that  has  happened  is 
of  no  consequence.'  I  asked  Blanche,  at  Windy- 
gates,  when  you  were  to  be  married — and  she 
told  me  not  until  the  end  of  the  autumn.  It  is 
only  the  fifth  of  September  now.  You  have 
plenty  of  time  before  you.  For  all  our  sakes, 
make  good  use  of  it. 

"  What  are  you  to  do  ? 

"  Go  at  once  to  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,  and  show 
him  this  letter.  Follow  his  advice — no  matter 
how  it  may  affect  me.  I  should  ill  requite  your 
kindness,  I  should  be  false  indeed  to  the  love  I 
bear  to  Blanche,  if  I  hesitated  to  brave  any  ex- 
posure that  may  now  be  necessary  in  your  in- 
terests and  in  hers.  You  have  been  all  that  is 
generous,  all  that  is  delicate,  all  that  is  kind  in 
this  matter.  You  have  kept  my  disgraceful  se- 
cret— I  am  quite  sure  of  it — with  the  fidelity  of 
an  honorable  man  who  has  had  a  woman's  repu- 
tation placed  in  his  charge.  I  release  you,  with 
my  whole  heart,  dear  Mr.  Brinkworth,  from  your 
pledge.  I  entreat  you,  on  my  knees,  to  consider 
yourself  free  to  reveal  the  truth.  I  will  make 
any  acknowledgment,  on  my  side,  that  is  need- 
ful under  the  circumstances — no  matter  how 
public  it  may  be.  Release  yourself  at  any  price ; 
and  then,  and  not  till  then,  give  back  your  regard 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


147 


"l    MUST    LEAVE    OFF,    AND   REST    A    LITTLE." 


to  the  miserable  woman  who  has  laden  you  with 
the  burden  of  her  sorrow,  and  darkened  your  life 
for  a  moment  with  the  shadow  of  her  shame. 

"  Pray  don't  think  there  is  any  painful  sacri- 
fice involved  in  this.  The  quieting  of  my  own 
mind  is  involved  in  it — and  that  is  all. 

"  What  has  life  left  for  me  ?  Nothing  but  the 
barren  necessity  of  living.  When  I  think  of  the 
future  now,  my  mind  passes  over  the  years  that 
may  be  left  to  me  in  this  world.  Sometimes  I 
dare  to  hope  that  the  Divine  Mercy  of  Christ — 
which  once  pleaded  on  earth  for  a  woman  like 
me — may  plead,  when  death  has  taken  me,  for 
my  spirit  in  Heaven.  Sometimes  I  dare  to  hope 
that  I  may  see  my  mother,  and  Blanche's  mother, 
in  the  better  world.  Their  hearts  were  bound 
together  as  the  hearts  of  sisters  while  they  were 
here ;  and  they  left  to  their  children  the  legacy  of 
their  love.  Oh,  help  me  to  say,  if  we  meet  again, 
that  not  in  vain  I  promised  to  be  a  sister  to 
Blanche !  The  debt  I  owe  to  her  is  the  heredi- 
tary debt  of  my  mother's  gratitude.  And  what 
am  I  now  ?  An  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  hap- 
piness of  her  life.  Sacrifice  me  to  that  happi- 
ness, for  God's  sake !  It  is  the  one  thing  I  have 
left  to  live  for.  Again  and  again  I  say  it — I 
care  nothing  for  myself.  I  have  no  right  to  be 
considered ;  I  have  no  wish  to  be  considered. 
Tell  the  whole  truth  about  me,  and  call  me  to 
bear  witness  to  it  as  publicly  as  you  please ! 

' '  I  have  waited  a  little,  once  more,  trying  to 
think,  before  I  close  my  letter,  what  there  may 
be  still  left  to  write. 

"  I  can  not  think  of  any  thing  left  but  the  duty 
of  informing  you  how  you  may  find  me,  if  you 
wish  to  write — or  if  it  is  thought  necessary  that 
we  should  meet  again. 


"  One  word  before  I  tell  you  this. 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  guess  what  you 
will  do,  or  what  you  will  be  advised  to  do  by 
others,  when  you  get  my  letter.  I  don't  even 
know  that  you  may  not  already  have  heard  of 
what  your  position  is  from  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
himself.  In  this  event,  or  in  the  event  of  your 
thinking  it  desirable  to  take  Blanche  into  your 
confidence,  I  venture  to  suggest  that  you  should 
appoint  some  person  whom  you  can  trust  to  see 
me  on  your  behalf — or,  if  you  can  not  do  this, 
that  you  should  see  me  in  the  presence  of  a  third 
person.  The  man  who  has  not  hesitated  to  be- 
tray us  both,  will  not  hesitate  to  misrepresent  us 
in  the  vilest  way,  if  he  can  do  it  in  the  future. 
For  your  own  sake,  let  us  be  careful  to  give  lying 
tongues  no  opportunity  of  assailing  your  place  in 
Blanche's  estimation.  Don't  act  so  as  to  lisk 
putting  yourself  in  a  false  position  again  !  Don't 
let  it  be  possible  that  a  feeling  unworthy  of  her 
should  be  roused  in  the  loving  and  generous  na- 
ture of  your  future  wife ! 

"  This  written,  I  may  now  tell  you  how  to 
communicate  with  me  after  I  have  left  this  place. 

"You  will  find  on  the  slip  of  paper  inclosed 
the  name  and  address  of  the  second  of  the  two 
lawyers  whom  I  consulted  in  Glasgow.  It  is  ar- 
ranged between  us  that  I  am  to  inform  him,  by 
letter,  of  the  next  place  to  which  I  remove,  and 
that  he  is  to  communicate  the  information  either 
to  you  or  to  Sir  Patrick  Lnndie,  on  your  apply- 
ing for  it  personally  or  by  writing.  I  don't  yet 
know  myself  where  I  may  find  refuge.  Nothing 
is  certain  but  that  I  can  not,  in  my  present  state 
of  weakness,  travel  far. 

"  If  you  wonder  why  I  move  at  all  until  I  am 
stronger,  I  can  only  give  a  reason  which  may 
appear  fanciful  and  overstrained. 


148 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  I  have  been  informed  that  I  was  advertised 
in  the  Glasgow  newspapers  during  the  time  when 
I  lay  at  this  hotel,  a  stranger  at  the  point  of  death. 
Trouble  has  perhaps  made  me  morbidly  suspi- 
cious. I  am  afraid  of  what  may  happen  if  I  stay 
here,  after  my  place  of  residence  has  been  made 
publicly  known.  So,  as  soon  as  I  can  move, 
I  go  away  in  secret.  It  will  be  enough  for  me, 
if  I  can  find  rest  and  peace  in  some  quiet  place, 
in  the  country  round  Glasgow.  You  need  feel 
no  anxiety  about  my  means  of  living.  I  have 
money  enough  for  all  that  I  need — and,  if  I  get 
well  again,  I  know  how  to  earn  my  bread. 

' '  I  send  no  message  to  Blanche — I  dare  not 
till  this  is  over.  Wait  till  she  is  your  happy 
wife ;  and  then  give  her  a  kiss,  and  say  it  comes 
from  Anne. 

"Try  and  forgive  me,  dear  Mr.  Brinkworth. 
I  have  said  all.  Yours  gratefully, 

"ANNE  SILVESTER." 

Sir  Patrick  put  the  letter  down  with  unfeigned 
respect  for  the  woman  who  had  written  it. 

Something  of  the  personal  influence  which 
Anne  exercised  more  or  less  over  all  the  men 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact  seemed  to  com- 
municate itself  to  the  old  lawyer  through  the 
medium  of  her  letter.  His  thoughts  perversely 
wandered  away  from  the  serious  and  pressing 
question  of  his  niece's  position  into  a  region  of 
purely  speculative  inquiry  relating  to  Anne. 
What  infatuation  (he  asked  himself)  had  placed 
that  noble  creature  at  the  mercy  of  such  a  man 
as  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ? 

We  have  all,  at  one  time  or  another  in  our 
lives,  been  perplexed  as  Sir  Patrick  was  per- 
plexed now. 

If  we  know  any  thing  by  experience,  we  know 
that  women  cast  themselves  away  impulsively  on 
unworthy  men,  and  that  men  ruin  themselves 
headlong  for  unworthy  women.  We  have  the 
institution  of  Divorce  actually  among  us,  exist- 
ing mainly  because  the  two  sexes  are  perpetually 
placing  themselves  in  these  anomalous  relations 
toward  each  other.  And  yet,  at  every  fresh  in- 
stance which  comes  before  us,  we  persist  in  be- 
ing astonished  to  find  that  the  man  and  the  wo- 
man have  not  chosen  each  other  on  rational  and 
producible  grounds !  We  expect  human  passion 
to  act  on  logical  principles ;  and  human  fallibil- 
ity— with  love  for  its  guide — to  be  above  all  dan- 
ger of  making  a  mistake !  Ask  the  wisest  among 
Anne  Silvester's  sex  what  they  saw  to  rationally 
justify' them  in  choosing  the  men  to  whom  they 
have  given  their  hearts  and  their  lives,  and  you 
will  be  putting  a  question  to  those  wise  women 
which  they  never  once  thought  of  putting  to 
themselves.  Nay,  more  still.  Look  into  your 
own  experience,  and  say  frankly,  Could  you  just- 
ify your  own  excellent  choice  at  the  time  when 
you  irrevocably  made  it  ?  Could  you  have  put 
your  reasons  on  paper  when  you  first  owned  to 
yourself  that  you  loved  him  ?  And  would  the 
reasons  have  borne  critical  inspection  if  you 
had? 

Sir  Patrick  gave  it  up  in  despair.  The  inter- 
ests of  his  niece  were  at  stake.  He  wisely  de- 
termined to  rouse  his  mind  by  occupying  him- 
self with  the  practical  necessities  of  the  moment. 
It  was  essential  to  send  an  apology  to  the  rec- 
tor, in  the  first  place,  so  as  to  leave  the  evening 
at  his  disposal  for  considering  what  preliminary 


course  of  conduct  he  should  advise  Arnold  to 
pursue. 

After  writing  a  few  lines  of  apology  to  his 
partner  at  Piquet — assigning  family  business  as 
the  excuse  for  breaking  his  engagement — Sir 
Patrick  rang  the  bell.  The  faithful  Duncan 
appeared,  and  saw  at  once  in  his  master's  face 
that  something  had  happened. 

"Send  a  man  with  this  to  the  Rectory,"  said 
Sir  Patrick.  "I  can't  dine  out  to-day.  I  must 
have  a  chop  at  home. " 

"  I  am  afraid,  Sir  Patrick — if  I  may  be  excused 
for  remarking  it — you  have  had  some  bad  news  ?" 

"The  worst  possible  news,  Duncan.  I  can't 
tell  you  about  it  now.  Wait  within  hearing  of 
the  bell.  In  the  mean  time  let  nobody  inter- 
rupt me.  If  the  steward  himself  comes  I  can't 
see  him." 

After  thinking  it  over  carefully,  Sir  Patrick 
decided  that  there  was  no  alternative  but  to  send 
a  message  to  Arnold  and  Blanche,  summoning 
them  back  to  England  in  the  first  place.  The 
necessity  of  questioning  Arnold,  in  the  minutest 
detail,  as  to  every  thing  that  had  happened  be- 
tween Anne  Silvester  and  himself  at  the  Craig 
Fernie  inn,  was  the  first  and  foremost  necessity 
of  the  case. 

At  the  same  time  it  appeared  to  be  desirable, 
for  Blanche's  sake,  to  keep  her  in  ignorance,  for 
the  present  at  least,  of  what  had  happened.  Sir 
Patrick  met  this  difficulty  with  characteristic  in- 
genuity and  readiness  of  resource. 

He  wrote  a  telegram  to  Arnold,  expressed  in 
the  following  terms : 

"  Your  letter  and  inclosures  received.  Return 
to  Ham  Farm  as  soon  as  you  conveniently  can. 
Keep  the  thing  still  a  secret  from  Blanche.  Tell 
her,  as  the  reason  for  coming  back,  that  the  lost 
trace  of  Anne  Silvester  has  been  recovered,  and 
that  there  may  be  reasons  for  her  returning  to 
England  before  any  thing  further  can  be  done." 

Duncan  having  been  dispatched  to  the  station 
with  this  message,  Duncan's  master  proceeded 
to  calculate  the  question  of  time. 

Arnold  would  in  all  probability  receive  the 
telegram  at  Baden,  on  the  next  day,  September 
the  seventeenth.  In  three  days  more  he  and 
Blanche  might  be  expected  to  reach  Ham  Farm. 
During  the  interval  thus  placed  at  his  disposal 
Sir  Patrick  would  have  ample  time  in  which  to 
recover  himself,  and  to  see  his  way  to  acting  for 
the  best  in  the  alarming  emergency  that  now 
confronted  him. 

On  the  nineteenth  Sir  Patrick  received  a  tele- 
gram informing  him  that  he  might  expect  to  see 
the  young  couple  late  in  the  evening  on  the 
twentieth. 

Late  in  the  evening  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  was  audible  on  the  drive ;  and  Sir  Pat- 
rick, opening  the  door  of  his  room,  heard  the 
familiar  voices  in  the  hall. 

"  Well!"  cried  Blanche,  catching  sight  of  him 
at  the  door, ' '  is  Anne  found  ?" 

'  Not  just  yet,  my  dear. " 

'  Is  there  news  of  her  ?" 

'Yes." 

'  Am  I  in  time  to  be  of  use  ?" 

'  In  excellent  time.  You  shall  hear  all  about 
it  to-morrow.  Go  and  take  off  your  traveling- 
things,  and  come  down  again  to  supper  as  soon 
as  you  can." 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


149 


Blanche  kissed  him,  and  went  on  up  stairs. 
She  hud,  as  her  uncle  thought  in  the  glimpse  he 
had  caught  of  her,  been  improved  by  her  mar- 
riage. It  had  quieted  and  steadied  her.  There 
were  graces  in  her  look  and  manner  which  Sir 
Patrick  had  not  noticed  before.  Arnold,  on  his 
side,  appeared  to  less  advantage.  He  was  rest- 
less and  anxious ;  his  position  with  Miss  Silves- 
ter seemed  to  be  preying  on  his  mind.  As  soon 
as  his  young  wife's  back  was  turned,  he  appealed 
to  Sir  Patrick  in  an  eager  whisper. 

"  I  hardly  dare  ask  you  what  I  have  got  it  on 
my  mind  to  say,"  he  began.  "I  must  bear  it, 
if  "you  are  angry  with  me,  Sir  Patrick.  But — 
only  tell  me  one  thing.  Is  there  a  way  out  of  it 
for  us  ?  Have  you  thought  of  that  ?" 

"  I  can  not  trust  myself  to  speak  of  it  clearly 
and  composedly  to-night,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"Be  satisfied  if  I  tell  you  that  I  have  thoughf  it 
all  out — and  wait  for  the  rest  till  to-morrow." 

Other  persons  concerned  in  the  coming  drama 
had  had  past  difficulties  to  think  out,  and  future 
movements  to  consider,  during  the  interval  occu- 
pied by  Arnold  and  Blanche  on  their  return  jour- 
ney to  England.  Between  the  seventeenth  and 
the  twentieth  of  September  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
had  left  Swanhaven,  on  the  way  to  his  new  train- 
ing quarters  in  the  neighborhood  in  which  the 
Foot-Race  at  Fulham  was  to  be  run.  Between 
the  same  dates,  also,  Captain  Newenden  had 
taken  the  opportunity,  while  passing  through 
London  on  his  way  south,  to  consult  his  solicit- 
ors. The  object  of  the  conference  was  to  find 
means  of  discovering  an  anonymous  letter-writer 
in  Scotland,  who  had  presumed  to  cause  serious 
annoyance  to  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Thus,  by  ones  and  twos,  converging  from  wide- 
ly distant  quarters,  they  were  now  beginning  to 
draw  together,  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  the 
great  city  which  was  soon  destined  to  assemble 
them  all,  for  the  first  and  the  last  time  in  this 
world,  face  to  face. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SEVENTH. 

THE   WAY    OUT. 

BREAKFAST  was-just  over.  Blanche,  seeing  a 
pleasantly-idle  morning  before  her,  proposed  to 
Arnold  to  take  a  stroll  in  the  grounds. 

The  garden  was  bright  with  sunshine,  and  the 
bride  was  bright  with  good-humor.  She  caught 
her  uncle's  eye,  looking  at  her  admiringly,  and 
paid  him  a  little  compliment  in  return.  "You 
have  no  idea,"  she  said,  "how  nice  it  is  to  be 
back  at  Ham  Farm  !" 

"  1  am  to  understand  then,"  rejoined'Sir  Pat- 
rick, "  that  I  am  forgiven  for  interrupting  the 
honey-moon  ?" 

"  You  are  more  than  forgiven  for  interrupting 
it,''  said  Blanche — "you  are  thanked.  As  a 
married  woman,"  she  proceeded,  with  the  air  of 
a  matron  of  at  least  twenty  years'  standing,  "I 
have  been  thinking  the  subject  over ;  and  I  have 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  a  honey-moon 
which  takes  the  form  of  a  tour  on  the  Continent, 
is  one  of  our  national  abuses  which  stands  in 
need  of  reform.  When  you  are  in  love  with  each 
other  (I  consider  a  marriage  without  love  to  be 
no  marriage  at  all),  what  do  you  want  with  the 
excitement  of  seeing  strange  places?  Isn't  it 


excitement  enough,  and  isn't  it  strange  enough, 
to  a  newly-married  woman  to  see  such  a  total 
novelty  as  a  husband  ?  What  is  the  most  inter- 
esting object  on  the  face  of  creation  to  a  man  in 
Arnold's  position  ?  The  Alps  ?  Certainly  not ! 
The  most  interesting  object  is  the  wife.  And 
the  proper  time  for  a  bridal  tour  is  the  time — 
say  ten  or  a  dozen  years  later — when  you  are  be- 
ginning (not  to  get  tired  of  each  other ;  that's 
out  of  the  question)  but  to  get  a  little  too  well 
used  to  each  other.  Then  take  your  tour  to 
Switzerland — and  you  -give  the  Alps  a  chance. 
A  succession  of  honey-moon  trips,  in  the  autumn 
of  married  life — there  is  my  proposal  for  an  im- 
provement on  the  present  state  of  things !  Come 
into  the  garden,  Arnold ;  and  let  us  calculate 
how  long  it  will  be  before  we  get  weary  of  each 
other,  and  want  the  beauties  of  nature  to  keep  us 
company. " 

Arnold  looked  appealingly  to  Sir  Patrick. 
Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them,  as  yet,  on 
the  serious  subject  of  Anne  Silvester's  letter. 
Sir  Patrick  undertook  the  responsibility  of  mak- 
ing the  necessary  excuses  to  Blanche. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  ask  leave  to  in- 
terfere with  your  monopoly  of  Arnold  for  a  lit- 
tle while.  I  have  something  to  say  to  him  about 
his  property  in  Scotland.  Will  you  leave  him 
with  me,  if  I  promise  to  release  him  as  soon  as 
possible  ?" 

Blanche  smiled  graciously.  "  You  shall  have 
him  as  long  as  you  like,  uncle.  There's  your 
hat,"  she  added,  tossing  it  to  her  husband,  gayly. 
"I  brought  it  in  for  you  when  I  got  my  own. 
You  will  find  me  on  the  lawn." 

She  nodded,  and  went  out. 

"  Let  me  hear  the  worst  at  once,  Sir  Patrick," 
Arnold  began.  "Is  it  serious?  Do  you  think 
I  am  to  blame  ?" 

' '  I  will  answer  your  last  question  first, "  said 
Sir  Patrick.  "Do  I  think  you  are  to  blame? 
Yes — in  this  way.  You  committed  an  act  of 
unpardonable  rashness  when  you  consented  to 
go,  as  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  messenger,  to  Miss 
Silvester  at  the  inn.  Having  once  placed  your- 
self in  that  false  position,  you  could  hardly  have 
acted,  afterward,  otherwise  than  you  did.  You 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  the  Scotch  law. 
And,  as  an  honorable  man,^-ou  were  bound  to 
keep  a  secret  confided  to  you,  in  which  the  repu- 
tation of  a  woman  was  concerned.  Your  first 
and  last  error  in  this  matter,  was  the  fatal  error 
of  involving  yourself  in  responsibilities  which  be- 
longed exclusively  to  another  man. " 

"The  man  had  saved  my  life,"  pleaded  Ar- 
nold— "and  I  believed  I  was  giving  service  for 
service  to  my  dearest  friend." 

"As  to  your  other  question, '' proceeded  Sir 
Patrick.  "  Do  I  consider  your  position  to  be  a 
serious  one?  Most  assuredly,  I  do1!  So  long  as 
we  are  not  absolutely  certain  that  Blanche  is 
your  lawful  wife,  the  position  is  more  than  seri- 
ous :  it  is  unendurable.  I  maintain  the  opinion, 
mind,  out  of  which  (thanks  to  your  honorable 
silence)  that  scoundrel  Delamayn  contrived  to 
cheat  me.  I  told  him,  what  I  now  tell  you — that 
your  sayings  and  doings  at  Craig  Fernie,  do  not 
constitute  a  marriage,  according  to  Scottish  law. 
But, "  pursued  Sir  Patrick,  holding  up  a  warning 
forefinger  at  Arnold,  "  you  have  read  it  in  Miss 
Silvester's  letter,  and  you  may  now  take  it  also 
as  a  result  of  my  experience,  that  no  individual 


150 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


opinion,  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  is  to  be  relied 
on.  Of  two  lawyers,  consulted  by  Miss  Silves- 
ter at  Glasgow,  one  di'aws  a  directly  opposite 
conclusion  to  mine,  and  decides  that  you  and  she 
are  married.  I  believe  him  to  be  wrong;  but, 
in  our  situation,  we  have  no  other  choice  than  to 
boldly  encounter  the  view  of  the  case  which  he 
represents.  In  plain  English,  we  must  begin  by 
looking  the  worst  in  the  face. " 

Arnold  twisted  the  traveling  hat  which  Blanche 
had  thrown  to  him,  nervously,  in  both  hands. 
"Supposing  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,"  he 
asked,  "what  will  happen?" 

Sir  Patrick  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  without 
entering  into  the  legal  aspect  of  the  case.  I 
shall  only  puzzle  you  if  I  do  that.  Suppose  we 
look  at  the  matter  in  its  social  bearings — I  mean, 
as  it  may  possibly  affect  you  and  Blanche,  and 
your  unborn  children?" 

Arnold  gave  the  hat  a  tighter  twist  than  ever. 
"  I  never  thought  of  the  children,"  he  said,  with 
a  look  of  consternation. 

"The  children  may  present  themselves,"  re- 
turned Sir  Patrick,  dryly,  "  for  all  that.  Now 
listen.  It  may  have  occurred  to  your  mind  that 
the  plain  way  out  of  our  present  dilemma  is  for 
you  and  Miss  Silvester,  respectively,  to  affirm 
what  we  know  to  be  the  truth — namely,  that  you 
never  had  the  slightest  intention  of  marrying 
each  other.  Beware  of  founding  any  hopes  on 
any  such  remedy  as  that !  If  you  reckon  on  it, 
you  reckon  without  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  He  is 
interested,  remember,  in  proving  you  and  Miss 
Silvester  to  be  man  and  wife.  Circumstances 
may  arise — I  won't  waste  time  in  guessing  at 
what  they  may  be — which  will  enable  a  third 
person  to  produce  the  landlady  and  the  waiter  at 
Craig  Femie  in  evidence  against  you — and  to 
assert  that  your  declaration  and  Miss  Silvester's 
declaration  are  the  result  of  collusion  between 
you  two.  D^n't  start !  Such  things  have  hap- 
pened before  now.  Miss  Silvester  is  poor ;  and 
Blanche  is  rich.  You  may  be  made  to  stand  in 
the  awkward  position  of  a  man  who  is  denying 
his  marriage  with  a  poor  woman,  in  order  to 
establish  his  marriage  wijh  an  heiress :  Miss  Sil- 
vester presumably  aiding  the  fraud,  with  two 
strong  interests  of  her  own  as  inducements — the 
interest  of  asserting  the  claim  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
man  of  rank,  and  the  interest  of  earning  her  re- 
ward in  money  for  resigning  you  to  Blanche. 
There  is  a  case  which  a  scoundrel  might  set  up 
— and  with  some  appearance  of  truth  too — in  a 
court  of  justice !" 

"Surely,  the  law  wouldn't  allow  him  to  do 
that?" 

"  The  law  will  argue  any  thing,  with  any  body 
who  will  pay  the  law  for  the  use  of  its  brains 
and  its  time.  Let  that  view  of  the  matter  alone 
now.  Delamayn  can  set  the  case  going,  if  he 
likes,  without  applying  to  any  lawyer  to  help 
him.  He  has  only  to  cause  a  report  to  reach 
Blanche's  ears  which  publicly  asserts  that  she  is 
not  your  lawful  wife.  With  her  temper,  do  you 
suppose  she  would  leave  us  a  minute's  peace  till 
the  matter  was  cleared  up  ?  Or  take  it  the  other 
way.  Comfort  yourself,  if  you  will,  with  the 
idea  that  this  affair  will  trouble  nobody  in  the 
present.  How  are  we  to  know  it  may  not  turn 
up  in  the  future  under  circumstances  which  may 
place  the  legitimacy  of  your  children  in  doubt  ?  i 


We  have  a  man  to  deal  with  who  sticks  at  no- 
thing. We  have  a  state  of  the  law  which  can 
only  be  described  as  one  scandalous  uncertainty 
from  beginning  to  end.  And  we  have  two  peo- 
ple (Bishopriggs  and  Mrs.  Inchbare)  who  can, 
and  will,  speak  to  what  took  place  between  you 
and  Anne  Silvester  at  the  inn.  For  Blanche's 
sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  your  unborn  children, 
we  must  face  this  matter  on  the  spot — and  settle 
it  at  once  and  forever.  The  question  before  us 
now  is  this.  Shall  we  ope/i  the  proceedings  by 
communicating  with  Miss  Silvester  or  not  ?" 

At  that  important  point  in  the  conversation 
they  were  interrupted  by  the  reappearance  of 
Blanche.  Had  she,  by  any  accident,  heard  what 
the}'  had  been  saying? 

No;  it  was  the  old  story  of  most  interrup- 
tions. Idleness  that  considers  nothing,  had  come 
to  look  at  Industry  that  bears  every  thing.  It  is 
a  law  of  nature,  apparently,  that  the  people  in 
this  world  who  have  nothing  to  do  can  not  sup- 
port the  sight  of  an  uninterrupted  occupation  in 
the  hands  of  their  neighbors.  Blanche  produced 
a  new  specimen  from  Arnold's  collection  of  hats. 
"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  in  the  garden." 
she  said,  quite  seriously.  "Here  is  the  brown 
one  with  the  high  crown.  You  look  better  in 
this  than  in  the  white  one  with  the  low  crown. 
I  have  come  to  change  them,  that's  all."  She 
changed  the  hats  with  Arnold,  and  went  on, 
without  the  faintest  suspicion  that  she  was  in  the 
way.  "Wear  the  brown  one  when  you  come 
out — and  come  soon,  dear.  .  I  won't  stay  an  in- 
stant longer,  uncle — I  wouldn't  interrupt  you  for 
the  world."  She  kissed  her  hand  to  Sir  Patrick, 
and  smiled  at  her  husband,  and  went  out. 

"What  were  we  saying?"  asked  Arnold. 
"  It's  awkward  to  be  interrupted  in  this  way, 
isn't  it  ?" 

"If  I  know  any  thing  of  female  human  na- 
ture," returned  Sir  Patrick,  composedly,  "your 
wife  will  be  in  and  out  of  the  room,  in  that  way, 
the  whole  morning.  I  give  her  ten  minutes,  Ar- 
nold,  before- she  changes  her  mind  again  on  the 
serious  and  weighty  subject  of  the  white  hat 
and  the  brown.  These  little  interruptions — 
otherwise  quite  charming — raj.sed  a  doubt  in  my 
mind.  Wouldn't  it  be  wise  (I  ask  myself ),  if  we 
made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  took  B'lanclie  into 
the  conversation  ?  What  do  you  say  to  calling 
her  back  and  telling  her  the  truth  ?" 

Arnold  started,  and  changed  color. 

"  There  are  difficulties  in  the  way,"  he 
said. 

"My  good  fellow !  at  every  step  of  this  busi- 
ness there  are  difficulties  in  the  way.  Sooner 
or  later,  your  wife  must  know  what  has  happened. 
The  time  for  telling  her  is,  no  doubt,  a  matter  for 
your  decision,  not  mine.  All  I  say  is  this.  Con- 
sider whether  the  disclosure  won't  come  from  you 
with  a  better  grace,  if  you  make  it  before  you  are 
fairly  driven  to  the  wall,  and  obliged  to  open  j'our 
lips." 

Arnold  rose  to  his  feet — took  a  turn  in  the 
room — sat  down  again — and  looked  at  Sir  Pat- 
rick, with  the  expression  of  a  thoroughly  bewil- 
dered and  thoroughly  helpless  man. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  said.  "It 
beats  me  altogether.  The  truth  is,  Sir  Patrick. 
I  was  fairly  forced,  at  Craig  Fernie,  into  deceiv- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


151 


CHANGE    AGAIN,    DEAR. 


ing  Blanche — in  what  might  seem  to  her  a  very 
unfeeling,  and  a  very  unpardonable  way." 

"That  sounds  awkward!  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"I'll  try  and  tell  you.  You  remember  when 
you  went  to  the  inn  to  see  Miss  Silvester  ?  Well, 
being  there  privately  at  the  time,  of  course  I  was 
obliged  to  keep  out  of  your  way. " 

"  I  see!  And,  when  Blanche  came  afterward, 
you  were  obliged  to  hide  from  Blanche,  exactly 
as  you  had  hidden  from  me  ?" 

"  Worse  even  than  that !  A  day  or  two  later, 
Blanche  took  me  into  her  confidence.  She  spoke 
to  me  of  her  visit  to  the  inn,  as  if  I  was  a  perfect 
stranger  to  the  circumstances.  She  told  me  to 
my  face,  Sir  Patrick,  of  the  invisible  man  who 
had  kept  so  strangely  out  of  her  way — without 
the  faintest  suspicion  that  I  was  the  man.  And 
I  never  opened  my  lips  to  set  her  right !  I  was 
obliged  to  be  silent,  or  I  must  have  betrayed 
Miss  Silvester.  What  will  Blanche  think  of  me, 
if  I  tell  her  now?  That's  the  question  !" 

Blanche's  name  had  barely  passed  her  hus- 
band's lips  before  Blanche  herself  verified  Sir 
Patrick's  prediction,  by  reappearing  at  the  open 
French  window,  with  the  superseded  white  hat  in 
her  hand. 

"Haven't  you  done  yet !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
am  shocked,  uncle,  to'interrupt  you  again — but 
these  horrid  hats  of  Arnold's  are  beginning  to 
weigh  upon  my  mind.  On  reconsideration,  I 
think  the  white  hat  with  the  low  crown  is  the 
most  becoming  of  the  two.  Change  again,  dear. 
Yes !  the  brown  hat  is  hideous.  There's  a  beg- 
gar at  the  gate.  Before  I  go  quite  distracted,  I 
shall  give  him  the  brown  hat,  and  have  done  with 
the  difficulty  in  that  manner.  Am  I  very  much 
in  the  way  of  business  ?  I'm  afraid  I  must  ap- 


pear restless?  Indeed,  I  am  restless.  I  can't 
imagine  what  is  the  matter  with  me  this  morn- 
ing. " 

"I  can  tell  you,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  in  his 
gravest  and  dryest  manner.  ' '  You  are  suffering, 
Blanche,  from  a  malady  which  is  exceedingly 
common  among  the  young  ladies  of  England. 
As  a  disease  it  is  quite  incurable — and  the  name 
of  it  is  Nothing-to-Do. " 

Blanche  dropped  her  uncle  a  smart  little 
courtesy.  "You  might  have  told  me  I  was  in 
the  way  in  fewer  words  than  that."  She  whisked 
round,  kicked  the  disgraced  brown  hat  out  into 
the  veranda  before  her,  and  left  the  two  gentle- 
men alone  once  more. 

"Your  position  with  your  wife,  Arnold,"  ic- 
sumed  Sir  Patrick,  returning  gravely  to  the  mat- 
ter in  hand,  "is  certainly  a  difficult  one."  He 
paused,  thinking  of  the  evening  when  he  and 
Blanche  had  illustrated  the  vagueness  of  Mrs. 
Inchbare's  description  of  the  man  at  the  inn,  by 
citing  Arnold  himself  as  being  one  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  innocent  people  who  answered  to  it! 
"Perhaps,"  he  added,  "the  situation  is  even 
more  difficult  than  you  suppose.  Jt  would  have 
been  certainly  easier  for  you — and  it  would  have 
looked  more  honorable  in  her  estimation — if  you 
had  made  the  inevitable  confession  before  your 
marria'ge.  I  am,  in  some  degree,  answerable  for 
your  not  having  done  this — as  well  as  for  the  far 
more  serious  dilemma  with  Miss  Silvester  in 
which  you  now  stand.  If  I  had  not  innocently 
hastened  your  marriage  with  Blanche,  Miss  Sil- 
vester's admirable  letter  would  have  reached  us 
in  ample  time  to  prevent  mischief.  It's  useless 
to  dwell  on  that  now.  Cheer  up,  Arnold!  I 
am  bound  to  show  you  the  way  out  of  the  laby- 


152 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


rinth,  no  matter  what  the  difficulties  may  be — 
and,  please  God,  I  will  do  it!" 

He  pointed  to  a  table  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  on  which  writing  materials  were  placed. 
"  I  hate  moving  the  moment  I  have  had  my 
breakfast,"  he  said.  "We  won't  go  into  the 
library.  Bring  me  the  pen  and  ink  here." 

"Are  you  going  to  write  to  Miss  Silvester ?" 

"That  is  the  question  before  us  which  we 
have  not  settled  yet.  Before  I  decide,  I  want  to 
be  in  possession  of  the  facts — down  to  the  small- 
est detail  of  what  took  place  between  you  and 
Miss  Silvester  at  the  inn.  There  is  only  one  way 
of  getting  at  those  facts.  I  am  going  to  examine 
you  as  if  I  had  you  before  me  in  the  witness-box 
in  court." 

With  that  preface,  and  with  Arnold's  letter 
from  Baden  in  his  hand  as  a  brief  to  speak  from, 
Sir  Patrick  put  his  questions  in  clear  and  endless 
succession ;  and  Arnold  patiently  and  faithfully 
answered  them  all. 

The  examination  proceeded  uninterruptedly 
until  it  had  reached  that  point  in  the  progress 
of  events  at  which  Anne  had  crushed  Geoffrey 
Delamayn's  letter  in  her  hand,  and  had  thrown 
it  from  her  indignantly  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  There,  for  the  first  time,  Sir  Patrick 
dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  apparently  intending 
to  take  a  note.  ' '  Be  very  careful  here,  "he  said ; 
"I  want  to  know  every  thing  that  you  can  tell 
me  about  that  letter." 

"The  letter  is  lost," said  Arnold. 

"The  letter  has  been  stolen  by  Bishopriggs, " 
returned  Sir  Patrick,  "and  is  in  the  possession 
of  Bishopriggs  at  this  moment. " 

"Why,  you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do!" 
exclaimed  Arnold. 

"I  sincerely  hope  not.  I  don't  know  what 
was  inside  the  letter.  Do  you  ?" 

' '  Yes.     Part  of  it  at  least." 

"Part  of  it?" 

"There  were  two  letters  written,  on  the  same 
sheet  of  paper, "said  Arnold.  "One  of  them 
was  written  by  Geoffrey  Delamayn — and  that  is 
the  one  I  know  about. " 

Sir  Patrick  started.  His  face  brightened  ;  he 
made  a  hasty  note.  "  Go  on !"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"  How  came  the  letters  to  be  written  on  the  same 
sheet?  Explain  that !" 

Arnold  explained  that  Geoffrey,  in  the  absence 
of  any  thing  else  to  write  his  excuses  on  to  Anne, 
had  written  to  her  on  the  fourth  or  blank  page 
of  a  letter  which  had  been  addressed  to  him  by 
Anne  herself. 

"Did  you  read  that  letter?"  asked  Sir  Pat- 
rick. 

'  I  might  have  read  it  if  I  had  liked." 

'And  you  didn't  read  it?" 

'No." 

'Why?" 

'Out  of  delicacy." 

Even  Sir  Patrick's  carefully  trained  temper 
was  not  proof  against  this.  "That  is  the  most 
misplaced  act  of  delicacy  I  ever  heard  of  in  my 
life!"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  warmly.  "Nev- 
er mind!  it's  useless  to  regret  it  now.  At  any 
rate,  you  read  Delamayn's  answer  to  Miss  Sil- 
vester's letter  ?" 

"Yes— I  did." 

"Repeat  it — as  nearly  as  you  can  remember 
at  this  distance  of  time." 

"It  was  so  short,"  sr.id  Arnold,  "that  there 


is  hardly  any  thing  to  repeat.  As  well  as  I  re- 
member, Geoffrey  said  he  was  called  away  to 
London  by  his  father's  illness.  He  told  Miss 
Silvester  to  stop  where  she  was  ;  and  he  referred 
her  to  me,  as  messenger.  That's  all  I  recollect 
of  it  now." 

"  Cudgel  your  brains,  my  good  fellow !  this  is 
very  important.  Did  he  make  no  allusion  to  his 
engagement  to  marry  Miss  Silvester  at  Craig 
Fernie  ?  Didn't  he  try  to  pacify  her  by  an  apol- 
ogy of  some  sort  ?" 

The  question  roused  Arnold's  memory  to 
make  another  effort. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Geoffrey  said  some- 
thing about  being  true  to  his  engagement,  or 
keeping  his  promise,  or  words  to  that  effect." 

"  You're  sure  of  what  you  say  now?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

Sir  Patrick  made  another  note. 

"Was  the  letter  signed?"  he  asked,  when  he 
had  done. 

"Yes." 

"And  dated?" 

"  Yes."  Arnold's  memory  made  a  second  ef- 
fort, after  he  had  given  his  second  affirmative 
answer.  "Wait  a  little, "he  said.  "I  remem- 
ber something  else  about  the  letter.  It  was  not 
only  dated.  The  time  of  day  at  which  it  was 
written  was  put  as  well. " 

" How  came  he  to  do  that?" 

"I  suggested  it.  The  letter  was  so  short  I 
felt  ashamed  to  deliver  it  as  it  stood.  I  told 
him  to  put  the  time — so  as  to  show  her  that  he 
was  obliged  to  write  in  a  hurry.  He  put  the 
time  when  the  train  started ;  and  (I  think)  the 
time  when  the  letter  was  written  as  well." 

"And  you  delivered  that  letter  to  Miss  Silves- 
ter, with  your  own  hand,  as  soon  as  you  saw  her 
at  the  inn  ?" 

"I  did." 

Sir  Patrick  made  a  third  note,  and  pushed  the 
paper  away  from  him  with  an  air  of  supreme  sat- 
isfaction. 

' '  I  always  suspected  that  lost  letter  to  be  an 
important  document,"  he  said — "or  Bishop- 
riggs would  never  have  stolen  it.  We  must  get 
possession  of  it,  Arnold,  at  any  sacrifice.  The 
first  thing  to  be  done  (exactly  as  I  anticipated), 
is  to  write  to  the  Glasgow  lawyer,  and  find  Miss 
Silvester." 

"Wait  a  little !"  cried  a  voice  at  the  veranda. 
"  Don't  forget  that  I  have  come  back  from  Baden 
to  help  you !" 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  both  looked  up.  This 
time  Blanche  had  heard  the  last  words  that  had 
passed  between  them.  She  sat  down  at  the  table 
by  Sir  Patrick's  side,  and  laid  her  hand  caress- 
ingly on  his  shoulder. 

"You  are  quite  right,  uncle,"  she  said.  "I 
am  suffering  this  morning  from  the  malady  of 
having  nothing  to  do.  Are  you  going  to  write 
to  Anne?  Don't.  Let  me  write  instead." 

Sir  Patrick  declined  to  resign  the  pen. 

"The  person  who  knows  Miss  Silvester's  ad- 
dress," he  said,  "is  a  lawyer  in  Glasgow.  I  am 
going  to  write  to  the  lawyer.  When  he  sends 
us  word  where  she  is — then,  Blanche,  will  be  the 
time  to  employ  your  good  offices,  in  winning  back 
your  friend." 

He  drew  the  writing  materials  once  more  with- 
in his  reach,  and,  suspending  the  remainder  of 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


153 


Arnold's  examination  for  the  present,  began  his 
letter  to  Mr.  Crtim. 

Blanche  pleaded  hard  for  an  occupation  of 
some  sort.  "  Can  nobody  give  me  something 
to  do?"  she  asked.  "Glasgow  is  such  a  long 
way  off,  and  waiting  is  such  weary  work.  Don't 
sit  there  staring  at  me,  Arnold !  Can't  you  sug- 
gest something  ?" 

Arnold,  for  once,  displayed  an  unexpected 
readiness  of  resource. 

"If  you  want  to  write,"  he  said,  "you  owe 
Lady  Lundie  a  letter.  It's  three  days  since  you 
heard  from  her — and  you  haven't  answered  her 
yet. " 

Sir  Patrick  paused,  and  looked  up  quickly 
from  his  writing-desk. 

"  Lady  Lundie?"  he  muttered,  inquiringly. 

"Yes,"  said  Blanche.  "It's  quite  true;  I 
owe  her  a  letter.  And  of  course  I  ought  to  tell 
her  we  have  come  back  to  England.  She  will 
be  finely  provoked  when  she  hears  why ! " 

The  prospect  of  provoking  Lady  Lundie  seem- 
ed to  rouse  Blanche's  dormant  energies.  She 
took  a  sheet  of  her  uncle's  note-paper,  and  be- 
gan writing  her  answer  then  and  there. 

Sir  Patrick  completed  his  communication  to 
the  lawyer — after  a  look  at  Blanche,  which  ex- 
pressed any  thing  rather  than  approval  of  her 
present  employment.  Having  placed  his  com- 
pleted note  in  the  post-bag,  he  silently  signed  to 
Arnold  to  follow  him  into  the  garden.  They 
went  out  together,  leaving  Blanche  absorbed 
over  her  letter  to  her  step-mother. 

"Is  my  wife  doing  any  thing  wrong?"  asked 
Arnold,  who  had  noticed  the  look  which  Sir  Pat- 
rick had  cast  on  Blanche. 

"  Your  wife  is  making  mischief  as  fast  as  her 
fingers  can  spread  it. " 

Arnold  stared.  "  She  must  answer  Lady  Lun- 
die's  letter,"  he  said. 

"  Unquestionably. " 

"And  she  must  tell  Lady  Lundie  we  have 
come. back." 

"I  don't  deny  it." 

"Then  what  is  the  objection  to  her  writ- 
ing?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  a  pinch  of  snuff — and  pointed 
with  his  ivory  cane  to  the  bees  humming  busily 
about  the  flower-beds  in  the  sunshine  of  the  au- 
tumn morning. 

' '  I'll  show  you  the  objection,"  he  said.  ' '  Sup- 
pose Blanche  told  one  of  those  inveterately  in- 
trusive insects  that  the  honey  in  the  flowers  hap- 
pens, through  an  unexpected  accident,  to  have 
come  to  an  end — do  you  think  he  would  take 
the  statement  for  granted?  No.  He  would 
plunge  head-foremost  into  the  nearest  flower, 
and  investigate  it  for  himself." 

"Well?"  said  Arnold. 

"Well — there  is  Blanche  in  the  breakfast- 
room  telling  Lady  Lundie  that  the  bridal  tour 
happens,  through  an  unexpected  accident,  to 
have  come  to  an  end.  Do  you  think  Lady  Lun- 
die is  the  sort  of  person  to  take  the  statement  for 
grunted  ?  Nothing  of  the  sort !  Lady  Lundie, 
like  the  bee,  will  insist  on  investigating  for  her- 
self. How  it  will  end,  if  she  discovers  the  truth 
— and  what  new  complications  she  may  not  in- 
troduce into  a  matter  which,  Heaven  knows,  is 
complicated  enough  already — I  leave  you  to  im- 
agine. My  poor  powers  of  prevision  are  not 
equal  to  it." 

K 


Before  Arnold  could  answer,  Blanche  joined 
them  from  the  breakfast-room. 

"I've  done  it,"  she  said.  "It  was  an  awk- 
ward letter  to  write— and  it's  a  comfort  to  have 
it  over. " 

"You  have  done  it,  my  dear,"  remarked  Sir 
Patrick,  quietly.  "And 'it  may  be  a  comfort. 
But  it's  not  over." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  think,  Blanche,  we  shall  hear  from. your 
step-mother  by  return  of  post." 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

THE   NEWS   FROM   GLASGOW. 

THE  letters  to  Lady  Lundie  and  to  Mr.  Crum 
having  been  dispatched  on  Monday,  the  return  of 
the  post  might  be  looked  for  on  Wednesday  aft- 
ernoon at  Ham  Farm. 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  held  more  than  one 
private  consultation,  during  the  interval,  on  the 
delicate  and  difficult  subject  of  admitting  Blanche 
to  a  knowledge  of  what  had  happened.  The  wise 
elder  advised ;  and  the  inexperienced  junior  list-  * 
ened.  "Think  of  it,"  said  Sir  Patrick;  "and 
do  it."  And  Arnold  thought  of  it — and  left  it 
undone. 

Let  those  who  feel  inclined  to  blame  him  re- 
member that  he  had  only  been  married  a  fort- 
night. It  is  hard,  surely,  after  but  two  weeks' 
possession  of  your  wife,  to  appear  before  her  in 
the  character  of  an  offender  on  trial — and  to  find 
that  an  angel  of  retribution  has  been  thrown  into 
the  bargain  by  the  liberal  destiny  which  bestowed 
on  you  the  woman  whom  you  adore ! 

They  were  all  three  at  home  on  the  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  looking  out  for  the  postman. 

The  correspondence  delivered  included  (exact- 
ly as  Sir  Patrick  had  foreseen)  a  letter  from  Lady 
Lundie.  Further  investigation,  on  the  far  more 
interesting  subject  of  the  expected  news  from 
Glasgow,  revealed — nothing.  The  lawyer  had 
not  answered  Sir  Patrick's  inquiry  by  return  of 
post. 

"Is  that  a  bad  sign?"  asked  Blanche.. 

"It  is  a  sign  that  something  has  happened," 
answered  her  uncle.  "  Mr.  Crum  is  possibly  ex- 
pecting to  receive  some  special  information,  and 
is  waiting  on  the  chance  of  being  able  to  com- 
municate it.  We  must  hope,  my  dear,  in  to- 
morrow's post." 

"Open  Lady  Lundie's  letter  in  the  mean 
time,"  said  Blanche.  "Are  you  sure  it  is  for 
you — and  not  for  me  ?" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Her  ladyship's 
reply  was  ominously  addressed  to  her  ladyship's 
brother-in-law.  "I  know  what  that  means," 
said  Blanche,  eying  her  uncle  eagerly  while  he 
was  reading  the  letter.  ' '  If  you  mention  Anne's 
name  you  insult  my  step-mother.  I  have  men-  • 
tioned  it  freely.  Lady  Lnndie  is  mortally  of- 
fended with  me." 

Rash  judgment  of  youth !  A  lady  who  takes 
a  dignified  attitude,  in  a  family  emergency,  is 
never  mortally  offended  —  she  is  only  deeply- 
grieved.  Lady  Lundie  took  a  dignified  attitude. 
"I  well  know,"  wrote  this  estimable  and  Chris- 
tian woman,  "  that  I  have  been  all  along  regard- 
ed in  the  light  of  an  intruder  by  the  family  con- 
nections of  iny  late  beloved  husband.  Bui  I  was 


154 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


hardly  prepared  to  find  myself  entirely  shut  out 
from  all  domestic  confidence,  at  a  time  when 
some  serious  domestic  catastrophe  has  but  too 
evidently  taken  place.  I  have  no  desire,  dear 
Sir  Patrick,  to  intrude.  Feeling  it,  however,  to 
be  quite  inconsistent  with  a  due  regard  for  my 
own  position — after  what  has  happened — to  cor- 
respond with  Blanche,  I  address  myself  to  the 
head  of  the  family,  purely  in  the  interests  of 
propriety.  Permit  me  to  ask  whether — under 
circumstances  which  appear  to  be  serious  enough 
to  require  the  recall  of  my  step-daughter  and  her 
husband  from  their  wedding  tour — you  think  it 
DECENT  to  keep  the  widow  of  the  late  Sir  Thom- 
as Lundie  entirely  in  the  dark  ?  Pray  consider 
this — not  at  all  out  of  regard  for  Me ! — but  out 
of  regard  for  your  own  position  with  Society. 
Curiosity  is,  as  you  know,  foreign  to  my  nature. 
But  when  this  dreadful  scandal  (whatever  it  may 
be)  comes  out — which,  dear  Sir  Patriqk,  it  can 
not  fail  to  do — what  will  the  world  think,  when 
it  asks  for  Lady  Lundie's  opinion,  and  hears  that 
Lady  Lundie  knew  nothing  about  it?  Which- 
ever way  you  may  decide  I  shall  take  no  offense. 
I  may  possibly  be  wounded — but  that  won't  mat- 
ter. My  little  round  of  duties  will  find  me  still 
earnest,  still  cheerful.  And  even  if  you  shut  me 
out,  my  best  wishes  will  find  their  way,  neverthe- 
less, to  Ham  Farm.  May  I  add — without  en- 
countering a  sneer — that  the  prayers  of  a  lone- 
ly woman  are  offered  for  the  welfare  of  all?" 

"  Well  ?"  said  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  folded  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

"You  have  your  step-mother's  best  wishes, 
my  dear. "  Having  answered  in  those  terms,  he 
bowed  to  his  niece  with  his  best  grace,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Do  I  think  it  decent,"  he  repeated  to  him- 
self, as  he  closed  the  door,  "to  leave  the  widow 
of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lundie  in  the  dark? 
When  a  lady's  temper  is  a  little  ruffled,  I  think 
it  more  than  decent,  I  think  it  absolutely  desir- 
able, to  let  that  lady  have  the  last  word."  He 
went  into  the  library,  and  dropped  his  sister-in- 
law's  remonstrance  into  a  box,  labeled  "Un- 
answere^  Letters."  Having  got  rid  of  it  in  that 
way,  he  hummed  his  favorite  little  Scotch  air — 
and  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  to  sun  himself 
in  the  garden. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  was  not  quite  satisfied 
•with  Sir  Patrick's  reply.  She  appealed  to  her 
husband.  "There  is  something  wrong,"  she 
said — "and  my  uncle  is  hiding  it  from  me." 

Arnold  could  have  desired  no  better  opportu- 
nity than  she  had  offered  to  him,  in  those  words, 
for  making  the  long-deferred  disclosure  to  her 
of  the  truth.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  Blanche's 
face.  By  an  unhappy  fatality  she  was  looking 
charmingly  that  morning.  How  would  she  look 
if  he  told  her  the  story  of  the  hiding  at  the  inn  ? 
Arnold  was  still  in  love  with  her — and  Arnold 
said  nothing. 

The  next  day's  post  brought  not  only  the  an- 
ticipated letter  from  Mr.  Crum,  but  an  unex- 
pected Glasgow  newspaper  as  well. 

Tliis  time  Blanche  had  no  reason  to  complain 
that  her  uncle  kept  his  correspondence  a  secret 
from  her.  After  reading  the  lawyer's  letter, 
with  an  interest  and  agitation  which  showed  that 
the  contents  had  taken  him  by  surprise,  he  hand- 


ed it  to  Arnold  and  his  niece.  "Bad  news 
there,"  he  said.  "  We  must  share  it  together." 

After  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  Sir  Pat- 
rick's letter  of  inquiry,  Mr.  Crum  began  by  stat- 
ing all  that  he  knew  of  Miss  Silvester's  move- 
ments— dating  from  the  time  when  she  had  left 
the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel.  About  a  fortnight  since 
he  had  received  a  letter  from  her  informing  him 
that  she  had  found  a  suitable  place  of  residence 
in  a  village  near  Glasgow.  Feeling  a  strong  in- 
terest in  Miss  Silvester,  Mr.  Crum  had  visited 
her  some  few  days  afterward.  He  had  satisfied 
himself  that  she  was  lodging  with  respectable  peo- 
ple, and  was  as  comfortably  situated  as  circum- 
stances would  permit.  For  a  week  more  he  had 
heard  nothing  from  the  lady.  At  the  expiration 
of  that  time  he  had  received  a  letter  from  her, 
telling  him  that  she  had  read  something  in  a 
Glasgow  newspaper,  of  that  day's  date,  which 
seriously  concerned  herself,  and  which  would 
oblige  her  to  travel  northward  immediately  as 
fast  as  her  strength  would  permit.  At  a  later 
period,  when  she  would  be  more  certain  of  her 
own  movements,  she  engaged  to  write  again,  and 
let  Mr.  Crum  know  where  he  might  communicate 
with  her  if  necessary.  In  the  mean  time,  she 
could  only  thank  him  for  his  kindness,  and  beg 
him  to  take  care  of  any  letters  or  messages  which 
might  be  left  for  her.  Since  the  receipt  of  this 
communication  the  lawyer  had  heard  nothing 
further.  He  had  waited  for  the  morning's  post 
in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  report  that  he  had 
received  some  further  intelligencer  The  hope 
had  not  been  realized.  He  had  now  stated  all 
that  he  knew  himself  thus  far — and  he  had  for- 
warded a  copy  of  the  newspaper  alluded  to  by 
Miss  Silvester,  on  the  chance  that  an  examina- 
tion of  it  by  Sir  Patrick  might  possibly  lead  to 
further  discoveries.  In  conclusion,  he  pledged 
himself  to  write  again  the  moment  he  had  any 
information  to  send. 

Blanche  snatched  up  the  newspaper,  and  open- 
ed it.  "Let  me  look!"  she  said.  "I  can  find 
what  Anne  saw  here  if  any  body  can !" 

She  ran  her  eye  eagerly  over  column  after 
column  and  page  after  page — and  dropped  the 
newspaper  on  her  lap  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Nothing!"  she  exclaimed.  "Nothing  any 
where,  that  I  can  see,  to  interest  Anne.  No- 
thing to  interest  any  body — except  Lady  Lun- 
die," she  went  on,  brushing  the  newspaper  off 
her  lap.  "It  turns  out  to  be  all  true,  Arnold, 
at  Swanhaven.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  is  going  to 
marry  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"What!"  cried  Arnold;  the  idea  instantly 
flashing  on  him  that  this  was  the  news  which 
Anne  had  seen. 

Sir  Patrick  gave  him  a  warning  look,  and 
picked  up  the  newspaper  from  the  floor. 

"I  may  as  well  run  through  it,  Blanche,  and 
make  quite  sure  that  you  have  missed  nothing," 
he  said. 

The  report  to  which  Blanche  had  referred 
was  among  the  paragraphs  arranged  under  the 
heading  of  "Fashionable  News."  "A  matri- 
monial alliance"  (the  Glasgow  journal  announced) 
"was  in  prospect  between  the  Honorable  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  and  the  lovely  and  accomplished 
relict  of  the  late  Matliew  Glenarm,  Esq.,  former- 
ly Miss  Newenden."  The  marriage  would,  in 
all  probability,  "  be  solemnized  in  Scotland,  be- 
i  fore  the  end  of  the  present  autumn;"  and  the 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


155 


wedding  breakfast,  it  was  whispered,  "  would ! 
collect  a  large  and  fashionable  party  at  Swan- 
haven  Lodge." 

Sir  Patrick  handed  the  newspaper  silently  to 
Arnold.  It  was  plain  to  any  one  who  knew  Anne 
Silvester's  story  that  those  were  the  words  which 
had  found  their  fatal  way  to  her  in  her  place  of 
rest.  The  inference  that  followed  seemed  to  be 
hardly  less  clear.  But  one  intelligible  object,  in 
the  opinion  of  Sir  Patrick,  could  be  at  the  end  of 
her  journey  to  the  north.  The  deserted  woman 
had  rallied"  the  last  relics  of  her  old  energy — and 
had  devoted  herself  to  the  desperate  purpose  of 
stopping  the  marriage  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Blanche  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"It  seems  like  a  fatality,"  she  said.  "Per- 
petual failure !  Perpetual  disappointment !  Are 
Anne  and  I  doomed  never  to  meet  again  ?" 

She  looked  at  her  uncle.  Sir  Patrick  showed 
none  of  his  customary  cheerfulness  in  the  face  of 
disaster. 

"She  has  promised  to  write  to  Mr.  Crum,"  he 
said.  "  And  Mr.  Crum  has  promised  to  let  us 
know  when  he  hears  from  her.  That  is  the  only 
prospect  before  us.  We  must  accept  it  as  re- 
signedly as  we  can." 

Blanche  wandered  out  Listlessly  among  the 
flowers  in  the  conservatory.  Sir  Patrick  made 
no  secret  of  the  impression  produced  upon  him 
by  Mr.  Crum's  letter,  when  he  and  Arnold  were 
left  alone. 

"There  is  no  denying," he  said,  "  that  matters 
have  taken  a  very  serious  turn.  My  plans  and 
calculations  are  all  thrown  out.  It  is  impossible 
to  foresee  what  new  mischief  may  not  come  of  it, 
if  those  two  women  meet ;  or  what  desperate  act 
Delamayn  may  not  commit,  if  he  finds  himself 
driven  to  the  wall.  As  things  are,  I  own  frank- 
ly I  don't  know  what  to  do  next.  A  great  light 
of  the  Presbyterian  Church,"  he  added,  with  a 
momentary  outbreak  of  his  whimsical  humor, 
"  once  declared,  in  my  hearing,  that  the  inven- 
tion of  printing  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  a 
proof  of  the  intellectual  activity  of  the  Devil. 
Upon  my  honor,  I  feel  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  inclined  to  agree  with  him." 

He  mechanically  took  up  the  Glasgow  journal, 
which  Arnold  had  laid  aside,  while  he  spoke. 

"What's  this!"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  name 
caught  his  eye  in  the  first  line  of  the  newspaper 
at  which  he  happened  to  look.  "  Mrs.  Glenarm 
again !  Are  they  turning  the  iron-master's  wid- 
ow into  a  public  character?" 

There  the  name  of  the  widow  was,  unquestion- 
ably ;  figuring  for  the  second  time  in  type,  in  a 
letter  of  the  gossiping  sort,  supplied  by  an  "Oc- 
casional Correspondent,"  and  distinguished  by 
the  title  of  "  Sayings  and  Doings  in  the  North." 
After  tattling  pleasantly  of  the  prospects  of  the 
shooting  season,  of  the  fashions  from  Paris,  of  an 
accident  to  a  tourist,  and  of  a  scandal  in  the 
Scottish  Kirk,  the  writer  proceeded  to  the  narra- 
tive of  a  case  of  interest,  relating  to  a  marriage 
in  the  sphere  known  (in  the  language  of  footmen) 
as  the  sphere  of  "  high  life." 

Considerable  sensation  (the  correspondent  an- 
nounced) had  been  caused  in  Perth  and  its  neigh- 
borhood, by  the  exposure  of  an  anonymous  at- 
tempt at  extortion,  of  which  a  lady  of  distinction 
had  lately  been  made  the  object.  As  her  name 
had  already  been  publicly  mentioned  in  an  ap- 
plication to  the  magistrates,  there  could  be  no 


impropriety  in  stating  that  the  lady  in  question 
was  Mrs.  Glenarm — whose  approaching  union 
with  the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  al- 
luded to  in  another  column  of  the  journal. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  had,  it  appeared,  received  an 
anonymous  letter,  on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival 
as  guest  at  the  house  of  a  friend,"  residing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Perth.  The  letter  warned  her 
that  there  was  an  obstacle,  of  which  she  was  her- 
self probably  not  aware,  in  the  way  of  her  project- 
ed marriage  with  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  That 
gentleman  had  seriously  compromised  himself 
with  another  lady ;  -end  the  lady  would  oppose 
his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  with  proof  in  writ- 
ing to  produce  in  support  of  her  claim.  The 
proof  was  contained  in  two  letters  exchanged  be- 
tween the  parties,  and  signed  by  their  names ; 
and  the  correspondence  was  placed  at  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  disposal,  on  two  conditions,  as  follows : 

First,  that  she  should  offer  a  sufficiently  liber- 
al price  to  induce  the  present  possessor  of  the  let- 
ters to  part  with  them.  Secondly,  that  she  should 
consent  to  adopt  such  a  method  of  paying  the 
money  as  should  satisfy  the  person  that  he  was  in 
no  danger  of  finding  himself  brought  within  reach 
of  the  law.  The  answer  to  these  two  proposals 
was  directed  to  be  made  through  the  medium  of 
an  advertisement  in  the  local  newspaper — distin- 
guished by  this  address,  "To  a  Friend  in  the 
Dark." 

Certain  turns  of  expression,  and  one  or  two 
mistakes  in  spelling,  pointed  to  this  insolent  let- 
ter as  being,  in  all  probability,  the  production  of 
a  Scotchman,  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  had  at  once  shown  it  to  her  nearest  rel- 
ative, Captain  Newenden.  The  captain  had 
sought  legal  advice  in  Perth.  It  had  been  de- 
cided, after  due  consideration,  to  insert  the  ad- 
vertisement demanded,  and  to  take  measures  to 
entrap  the  writer  of  the  letter  into  revealing  him- 
self—without, it  is  needless  to  add,  allowing  the 
fellow  really  to  profit  by  his  attempted  acT  of  ex- 
tortion. 

The  cunning  of  the  "Friend  in  the  Dark" 
(whoever  he  might  be)  had,  on  trying  the  pro- 
posed experiment,  proved  to  be  more  than  a  match 
for  the  lawyers.  He  had  successfully  eluded 
not  only  the  snare  first  set  for  him,  but  others 
subsequently  laid.  A  second,  and  a  third,  anony- 
mous letter,  one  more  impudent  than  the  other, 
had  been  received  by  Mrs.  Glenarm,  assuring  that 
lady  and  the  friends  who  were  acting  for  her, 
that  they  were  only  wasting  time,  and  raising  the 
price  which  would  be  asked  for  the  correspond- 
ence, by  the  course  they  were  taking.  Captain 
Newenden  had  thereupon,  in  default  of  knowing 
what  other  course  to  pursue,  appealed  publicly 
to  the  city  magistrates ;  and  a  reward  had  been 
offered,  under  the  sanction  of  the  municipal  au- 
thorities, for  the  discovery  of  the  man.  This 
proceeding  also  having  proved  quite  fruitless,  it 
was  understood  that  the  captain  had  arranged, 
with  the  concurrence  of  his  English  solicitors,  to 
place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  an  experienced 
officer  of  the  London  police. 

Here,  so  far  as  the  newspaper  correspondent 
was  aware,  the  affair  rested  for  the  present. 

It  was  only  necessary  to  add,  that  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm had  left  the  neighborhood  of  Perth,  in  order 
to  escape  further  annoyance;  and  had  placed 
herself  under  the  protection  of  friends  in  another 
part  of  the  county.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn, 


156 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


whose  fair  fame  had  been  assailed  (it  was  need- 
less, the  correspondent  added  in  parenthesis,  to 
say  how  groundlessly),  was  understood  to  have 
expressed,  not  only  the  indignation  natural  under 
the  circumstances,  but  also  his  extreme  regret  at 
not  finding  himself  in  a  position  to  aid  Captain 
Newenden's  efforts  to  bring  the  anonymous  slan- 
derer to  justice.  The  honorable  gentleman  was, 
as  the  sporting  public  were  well  aware,  then  in 
course  of  strict  training  for  his  forthcoming  ap- 
pearance at  the  Fulham  Foot-Race.  So  import- 
ant was  it  considered  that  his  mind  should  not 
be  harassed  by  annoyances,  in  his  present  re- 
sponsible position,  that  his  trainer  and  his  prin- 
cipal backers  had  thought  it  desirable  to  hasten 
his  removal  to  the  neighborhood  of  Fulham — 
where  the  exercises  which  were  to  prepare  him 
for  the  race  were  now  being  continued  on  the 
spot. 

"The  mystery  seems  to  thicken,"  said  Ar- 
nold. 

"Quite  the  contrary,"  returned  Sir  Patrick, 
briskly.  ' '  The  mystery  is  clearing  fast — thanks 
to  the  Glasgow  newspaper.  Miss  Silvester  has 
gone  to  Perth,  to  recover  her  correspondence 
with  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

' '  Do  you  think  she  would  recognize  it, "  said 
Arnold,  pointing  to  the  newspaper,  "in  the  ac- 
count given  of  it  here  ?" 

"Certainly !  And  she  could  hardly  fail,  in  my 
opinion,  to  get  a  step  farther  than  that.  Unless 
I  am  entirely  mistaken,  the  authorship  of  the 
anonymous  letters  has  not  mystified  her." 

"  How  could  she  guess  at  that  ?" 

"  In  this  way,  as  I  think.  Whatever  she  may 
have  previously  thought,  she  must  suspect,  by 
this  time,  that  the  missing  correspondence  has 
been  stolen,  and  not  lost.  Now,  there  are  only 
two  persons  whom  she  can  think  of,  as  probably 
guilty  of  the  theft — Mrs.  InchbareorBishopriggs. 
The  newspaper  description  of  the  style  of  the 
anonymous  letters  declares  it  to  be  the  style  of  a 
Scotchman  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life — in  other 
words,  points  plainly  to  Bishopriggs.  You  see 
that?  Very  well.  Now  suppose  she  recovers 
the  stolen  property.  What  is  likely  to  happen 
then  ?  She  will  be  more  or  less  than  woman  if 
she  doesn't  make  her  way  next,  provided  with 
her  proofs  in  writing,  to  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She 
may  innocently  help,  or  she  may  innocently  frus- 
trate, the  end  we  have  in  view — either  way,  our 
course  is  clear  before  us  again.  Our  interest  in 
communicating  with  Miss  Silvester  remains  pre- 
cisely the  same  interest  that  it  was  before  we 
received  the  Glasgow  newspaper.  I  propose  to 
wait  till  Sunday,  on  the  chance  that  Mr.  Crum 
may  write  again.  If  we  don't  hear  from  him,  I 
shall  start  for  Scotland  on  Monday  morning,  and 
take  my  chance  of  finding  my  way  to  Miss  Sil- 
vester, through  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"Leaving  me  behind?" 

' '  Leaving  you  behind.  Somebody  must  stay 
with  Blanche.  After  having  only  been  a  fort- 
night married,  must  I  remind  you  of  that  ?" 

"  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Crum  will  write  before 
Monday  ?" 

"It  will  be  such  a  fortunate  circumstance  for 
us,  if  he  does  write,  that  I  don't  venture  to  antic- 
ipate it." 

"  You  are  down  on  our  luck,  Sir." 

"I  detest  slang,  Arnold.     But  slang,  I  own, 


expresses  my  state  of  mind,  in  this  instance, 
with  an  accuracy  which  almost  reconciles  me  to 
the  use  of  it — for  once  in  a  way. " 

"Every  body's  luck  turns  sooner  or  later," 
persisted  Arnold.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  our 
luck  is  on  the  turn  at  last.  Would  you  mind 
taking  a  bet,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

"Apply  at  the  stables.  I  leave  betting,  as  I 
leave  cleaning  the  horses,  to  my  groom. " 

With  that  crabbed  answer  he  closed  the  con- 
versation for  the  day. 

The  hours  passed,  and  time  brought  the  post 
again  in  due  course — and  the  post  decided  in 
Arnold's  favor !  Sir  Patrick's  want  of  confi- 
dence in  the  favoring  patronage  of  Fortune  was 
practically  rebuked  by  the  arrival  of  a  second 
letter  from  the  Glasgow  lawyer  on  the  next  day. 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing"  (Mr. 
Crum  wrote)  "that  I  have  heard  from  Miss 
Silvester,  by  the  next  postal  delivery  ensuing, 
after  I  had  dispatched  my  letter  to  Ham  Farm. 
She  writes,  very  briefly,  to  inform  me  that  she  has 
decided  on  establishing  her  next  place  of  resi- 
dence in  London.  The  reason  assigned  for  tak- 
ing this  step — which  she  certainly  did  not  con- 
template when  I  last  saw  her — is,  that  she  finds 
herself  approaching  the  end  of  her  pecuniary  re- 
sources. Having  already  decided  on  adopting, 
as  a  means  of  living,  the  calling  of  a  concert- 
singer,  she  has  arranged  to  place  her  interests 
in  the  hands  of  an  old  friend  of  her  late  mother 
(who  appears  to  have  belonged  also  to  the  music- 
al profession) :  a  dramatic  and  musical  agent  long 
established  in  the  metropolis,  and  well  known 
to  her  as  a  trust-worthy  and  respectable  man. 
She  sends  me  the  name  and  address  of  this  per- 
son— a  copy  of  which  you  will  find  on  the  in- 
closed slip  of  paper — in  the  event  of  my  having 
occasion  to  write  to  her,  before  she  is  settled  in 
London.  This  is  the  whole  substance  of  her 
letter.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  it  does  not  con- 
tain the  slightest  allusion  to  the  nature  of  the  er- 
rand on  which  she  left  Glasgow." 

Sir  Patrick  happened  to  be  alone  when  he 
opened  Mr.  Cram's  letter. 

His  first  proceeding,  after  reading  it,  was  to 
consult  the  railway  time-table  hanging  in  the 
hall.  Having  done  this,  he  returned  to  the  li- 
brary— wrote  a  short  note  of  inquiry,  addressed 
to  the  musical  agent — and  rang  the  bell. 

"Miss  Silvester  is  expected  in  London,  Dun- 
can. I  want  a  discreet  person  to  communicate 
with  her.  You  are  the  person." 

Duncan  bowed.  Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the 
note. 

"If  you  start  at  once  you  will  be  in  time  to 
catch  the  train.  Go  to  that  address,  and  inquire 
for  Miss  Silvester.  If  she  has  arrived,  give  her 
my  compliments,  and  say  I  will  have  the  honor 
of  calling  on  her  (on  Mr.  Brinkworth's  behalf) 
at  the  earliest  date  which  she  may  find  it  conven- 
ient to  appoint.  Be  quick  about  it — and  you 
will  have  time  to  get  back  before  the  last  train. 
Have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  returned  from 
their  drive  ?" 

"No,  Sir  Patrick." 

Pending  the  return  of  Arnold  and  Blanche, 
Sir  Patrick  looked  at  Mr.  Crum's  letter  for  the 
second  time. 

He  was  not  quite  satisfied  that  the  pecuniary 
motive  was  really  the  motive  at  the  bottom  of 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


157 


Anne's  journey  south.  Remembering  that  Geof- 
frey's trainers  had  removed  "him  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  he  was  inclined  to  doubt  wheth- 
er some  serious  quarrel  had  not  taken  place  be- 
tween Anne  and  Mrs.  Glenarm — and  whether 
some  direct  appeal  to  Geoffrey  himself  might  not 
be  in  contemplation  as  the  result.  In  that  event, 
Sir  Patrick's  advice  and  assistance  would  be 
placed,  without  scruple,  at  Miss  Silvester's  dis- 
posal. By  asserting  her  claim,  in  opposition  to 
the  claim  of  Mrs.  Glenarm,  she  was  also  asserting 
herself  to  be  an  unmarried- woman,  and  was  thus 
serving  Blanche's  interests  as  well  as  her  own. 
"I  owe  it  to  Blanche  to  help  her,"  thought  Sir 
Patrick.  "And  I  owe  it  to  myself  to  bring 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  to  a  day  of  reckoning  if  I 
can." 

The  barking  of  the  dogs  in  the  yard  announced 
the  return  of  the  carriage.  Sir  Patrick  went  out 
to  meet  Arnold  and  Blanche  at  the  gate,  and  tell 
them  the  news. 

Punctual  to  the  time  at  which  he  was  expect- 
ed, the  discreet  Duncan  reappeared  with  a  note 
from  the  musical  agent. 

Miss  Silvester  had  not  yet  reached  London ; 
but  she  was  expected  to  arrive  not  later  than 
Tuesday  in  the  ensuing  week.  The  agent  had 
already  been  favored  with  her  instructions  to  pay 
the  strictest  attention  to  any  commands  received 
from  Sir  Patrick  Lundie.  He  would  take  care 
that  Sir  Patrick's  message  should  be  given  to 
Miss  Silvester  as  soon  as  she  arrived. 

At  last,  then,  there  was  news  to  be  relied  on ! 
At  last  there  was  a  prospect  of  seeing  her! 
Blanche  was  radiant  with  happiness.  Arnold 
was  in  high  spirits  for  the  first  time  since  his 
return  from  Baden. 

Sir  Patrick  tried  hard  to  catch  the  infection 
of  gayety  from  his  young  friends ;  but,  to  his 
own  surprise,  not  less  than  to  theirs,  the  effort 
proved  fruitless.  With  the  tide  of  events  turn- 
ing decidedly  in  his  favor — relieved  of  the  neces- 
sity of  taking  a  doubtful  journey  to  Scotland ; 
assured  of  obtaining  his  interview  with  Anne  in 
a  few  days'  time — he  was  out  of  spirits  all  through 
the  evening. 

"  Still  down  on  our  luck !"  exclaimed  Arnold, 
as  he  and  his  host  finished  their  last  game  of 
billiards,  and  parted  for  the  night.  "  Surely, 
we  couldn't  wish  for  a  more  promising  prospect 
than  our  prospect  next  week  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  laid  his  hand  on  Arnold's  shoulder. 

"Let  us  look  indulgently  together,"  he  said, 
in  his  whimsically  grave  way,  "at  the  humilia- 
ting spectacle  of  an  old  man's  folly.  I  feel,  at 
this  moment,  Arnold,  as  if  I  would  give  every 
thing  that  I  possess  in  the  world  to  have  passed 
over  next  week,  and  to  be  landed  safely  in  the 
time  beyond  it." 

"But  why?" 

"  There  is  the  folly !  I  can't  tell  why.  With 
every  reason  to  be  in  better  spirits  than  usual, 
I  am  unaccountably,  irrationally,  invincibly  de- 
pressed. What  are  we  to  conclude  from  that? 
Am  I  the  object  of  a  supernatural  warning  of 
misfortune  to  come?  Or  am  I  the  object  of  a 
temporary  derangement  of  the  functions  of  the 
liver?  There  is  the  question.  Who  is  to  de- 
cide it?  How  contemptible  is  humanity,  Ar- 
nold, rightly  understood !  Give  me  my  candle, 
and  let's  hope  it's  the  liver.  "^ 


EIGHTH  SCENE.-THE  PANTRY. 
CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-NINTH. 

ANNE   WINS   A  VICTORY. 

ON  a  certain  evening  in  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber (at  that  period  of  the  month  when  Arnold 
and  Blanche  were  traveling  back  from  Baden  to 
Ham  Farm)  an  ancient  man — with  one  eye  filmy 
and  blind,  and  one  eye  moist  and  merry — sat 
alone  in  the  pantry  of  the  Harp  of  Scotland  Inn, 
Perth,  pounding  the  sugar  softly  in  a  glass  of 
whisky-punch.  He  has  hitherto  been  personally 
distinguished  in  these  pages  as  the  self-appoint- 
ed father  of  Anne  Silvester  and  the  humble  serv- 
ant of  Blanche  at  the  dance  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 
He  now  dawns  on  the  view  in  amicable  relations 
with  a  third  lady — and  assumes  the  mystic  char- 
acter of  Mrs.  Glenarm 's  "  Friend  in  the  Dark." 

Arriving  in  Perth  the  day  after  the  festivities 
at  Swanhaven,  Bishopriggs  proceeded  to  the  Harp 
of  Scotland — at  which  establishment  for  the  re- 
ception of  travelers  he  possessed  the  advantage 
of  being  known  to  the  landlord  as  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare's  right-hand  man,  and  of  standing  high  on 
the  head-waiter's  list  of  old  and  intimate  friends. 

Inquiring  for  the  waiter  first  by  the  name  of 
Thomas  (otherwise  Tammy)  Penny  quick,  Bish- 
opriggs found  his  friend  in  sore  distress  of  body 
and  mind.  Contending  vainly  against  the  dis- 
abling advances  of  rheumatism,  Thomas  Penny- 
quick  ruefully  contemplated  the  prospect  of  be- 
ing laid  up  at  home  by  a  long  illness — with  a 
wife  and  children  to  support,  and  with  the  emol- 
uments attached  to  his  position  passing  into  the 
pockets  of  the  first  stranger  who  could  be  found 
to  occupy  his  place  at  the  inn. 

Hearing  this  doleful  story,  Bishopriggs  cun- 
ningly saw  his  way  to  serving  his  own  private 
interests  by  performing  the  part  of  Thomas  Pen- 
nyquick's  generous  and  devoted  friend. 

He  forthwith  offered  to  fill  the  place,  without 
taking  the  emoluments,  of  the  invalided  head- 
waiter — on  the  understanding,  as  a  matter  oi 
course,  that  the  landlord  consented  to  board  and 
lodge  him  free  of  expense  at  the  inn.  The  land- 
lord having  readily  accepted  this  condition,  Thom- 
as Pennyquick  retired  to  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
And  there  was  Bishopriggs,  doubly  secured  be- 
hind a  respectable  position  and  a  virtuous  action, 
against  all  likelihood  of  suspicion  falling  on  him, 
as  a  stranger  in  Perth — in  the  event  of  his  cor- 
respondence with  Mrs.  Glenarm  being  made  the 
object  of  legal  investigation  on  the  part  of  her 
friends ! 

Having  opened  the  campaign  in  this  masterly 
manner,  the  same  sagacious  foresight  had  distin- 
guished the  operations  of  Bishopriggs  throughout. 

His  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  was 
invariably  written  with  the  left  hand — the  writ- 
ing thus  produced  defying  detection,  in  all  cases, 
as  bearing  no  resemblance  of  character  whatever 
to  writing  produced  by  persons  who  habitually 
use  the  other  hand.  A  no  less  far-sighted  cun- 
ning distinguished  his  proceedings  in  answering 
the  advertisements  which  the  lawyers  duly  in- 
serted in  the  newspaper.  He  appointed  hours 
at  which  he  was  employed  on  business-errands 
for  the  inn,  and  places  which  lay  on  the  way  to 
those  errands,  for  his  meetings  with  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  representatives :  a  pass-word  being  determ- 
ined on,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  by  exchanging 


158 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


which  the  persons  concerned  could  discover  each 
other.  However  carefully  the  lawyers  might  set 
the  snare — whether  they  had  their  necessary 
' '  witness"  disguised  as  an  artist  sketching  in  the 
neighborhood,  or  as  an  old  woman  selling  fruit, 
or  what  not — the  wary  eye  of  Bishopriggs  detect- 
ed it.  He  left  the  pass-word  unspoken ;  he  went 
his  way  on  his  errand ;  he  was  followed  on  sus- 
picion; and  he  was  discovered  to  be  only  "a 
respectable  person,"  charged  with  a  message  by 
the  landlord  of  the  Harp  of  Scotland  Inn ! 

To  a  man  intrenched  behind  such  precautions 
as  these,  the  chance  of  being  detected  might  well 
be  reckoned  among  the  last  of  all  the  chances 
that  could  possibly  happen. 

Discovery  was,  nevertheless,  advancing  on 
Bishopriggs  from  a  quarter  which  had  not  been 
included  in  his  calculations.  Anne  Silvester  was 
in  Perth ;  forewarned  by  the  newspaper  (as  Sir 
Patrick  had  guessed)  that  the  letters  offered  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm  were  the  letters  between  Geoffrey 
and  herself,  which  she  had  lost  at  Craig  Fernie, 
and  bent  on  clearing  up  the  suspicion  which  point- 
ed to  Bishopriggs  as  the  person  who  was  trying 
to  turn  the  correspondence  to  pecuniary  account. 
The  inquiries  made  for  him,  at  Anne's  request, 
as  soon  as  she  arrived  in  the  town,  openly  de- 
scribed his  name,  and  his  former  position  as  head- 
waiter  at  Craig  Fernie — and  thus  led  easily  to 
the  discovery  of  him,  in  his  publicly  avowed  char- 
acter of  Thomas  Pennyquick's  devoted  friend. 
Toward  evening,  on  the  day  after  she  reached 
Perth,  the  news  came  to  Anne  that  Bishopriggs 
was  in  service  at  the  inn  known  as  the  Harp  of 
Scotland.  The  landlord  of  the  hotel  at  which 
she  was  staying  inquired  whether  he  should  send 
a  message  for  her.  She  answered,  "  No,  I  will 
take  my  message  myself.  All  I  want  is  a  per- 
son to  show  me  the  way  to  the  inn. " 

Secluded  in  the  solitude  of  the  head-waiter's 
pantry,  Bishopriggs  sat  peacefully  melting  the 
sugar  in  his  whisky-punch. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  at  which  a  pe- 
riod of  tranquillity  generally  occurred  before  what 
was  called  "  the  night-business"  of  the  house 
began.  Bishopriggs  was  accustomed  to  drink 
and  meditate  daily  in  this  interval  of  repose.  He 
tasted  the  punch,  and  smiled  contentedly  as  he 
set  down  his  glass.  The  prospect  before  him 
looked  fairly  enough.  He  had  outwitted  the 
lawyers  in  the  preliminary  negotiations  thus  far. 
All  that  was  needful  now  was  to  wait  till  the  ter- 
ror of  a  public  scandal  (sustained  by  occasional 
letters  from  her  "Friend  in  the  Dark")  had  its 
due  effect  on  Mrs.  Glenarm,  and  hurried  her  into 
paying  the  purchase-money  for  the  correspond- 
ence with  her  own  hand.  "  Let  it  breed  in  the 
brain,"  he  thought,  "and  the  siller  will  soon 
come  out  o'  the  purse. " 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  slovenly  maid-servant,  with  a  cotton 
handkerchief  tied  round  her  head,  and  an  un- 
cleaned  sauce-pan  in  her  hand. 

"Eh,  Maister  Bishopriggs,"  cried  the  girl, 
"here's  a  braw  young  leddy  speerin'  for  ye  by 
yer  ain  name  at  the  door. " 

"  A  leddy  ?"  repeated  Bishopriggs,  with  a  look 
of  virtuous  disgust.  "  Ye  donnert  ne'er-do-weel, 
do  you  come  to  a  decent,  'sponsible  man  like  me, 
wi'  sic  a  Cyprian  overture  as  that?  What  d'ye 
tak'  me  for  ?  Mark  Antony  that  lost  the  world 


for  love  (the  mair  fule  he !)  ?  or  Don  Jovanny 
that  counted  his  concubines  by  hundreds,  like 
the  blessed  Solomon  himself?  Awa'  wi'  ye  to 
yer  pots  and  pans ;  and  bid  the  wandering  Venus 
that  sent  ye  go  spin ! " 

Before  the  girl  could  answer  she  was  gently 
pulled  aside  from  the  doorway,  and  Bishopriggs, 
thunder-struck,  saw  Anne  Silvester  standing  in 
her  place. 

"  You  had  better  tell  the  servant  I  am  no 
stranger  to  you,"  said,  Anne,  looking  toward  the 
kitchen-maid,  who  stood  in  the  passage  staring 
at  her  in  stolid  amazement. 

"My  ain  sister's  child!"  cried  Bishopriggs, 
lying  with  his  customary  readiness.  "  Go  yer 
ways,  Maggie.  The  bonny  lassie's  my  ain  kith 
and  kin.  The  tongue  o'  scandal,  I  trow,  has 
naething  to  say  against  that. — Lord  save  us  and 
guide  us !"  he  added  in  another  tone,  as  the  girl 
closed  the  door  on  them,  ' '  what  brings  ye  here  ?" 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  am  not 
very  well ;  I  must  wait  a  little  first.  Give  me  a 
chair. " 

Bishopriggs  obeyed  in  silence.  His  one  avail- 
able eye  rested  on  Anne,  as  he  produced  the 
chair,  with  an  uneasy  and  suspicious  attention. 
"I'm  wanting  to  know  one  thing,"  he  said. 
"  By  what  meeraiculous  means,  young  madam, 
do  ye  happen  to  ha'  fund  yer  way  to  this  inn  ?" 

Anne  told  him  how  her  inquiries  had  been 
made,  and  what  the  result  had  been,  plainly  and 
frankly.  The  clouded  face  of  Bishopriggs  began 
to  clear  again. 

"Hech!  hech!"  he  exclaimed,  recovering  all 
his  native  impudence,  "I  hae  had  occasion  to 
remark  already,  to  anither  leddy  than  yersel', 
that  it's  seemply  mairvelous  hoo  a  man's  ain 
gude  deeds  find  him  oot  in  this  lower  warld  o' 
ours.  I  hae  dune  a  gude  deed  by  pure  Tammy 
Pennyquick,  and  here's  a'  Pairth  ringing  wi'  the 
report  o'  it ;  and  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs  sae  weel 
known  that  ony  stranger  has  only  to  ask,  and 
find  him.  Understand,  I  beseech  ye,  that  it's  no 
hand  o'  mine  that  pets  this  new  feather  in  my 
cap.  As  a  gude  Calvinist,  my  saul's  clear  o'  the 
smallest  figment  o'  belief  in  Warks.  When  I 
look  at  my  ain  celeebrity  I  joost  ask,  as  the 
Psawmist  asked  before  me,  'Why  do  the  hea- 
then rage,  and  the  people  imagine  a  vain  thing  ?' 
It  seems  ye've  something  to  say  to  me, "  he  add- 
ed, suddenly  reverting  to  the  object  of  Anne's 
visit.  "Is  it  humanly  possible  that  ye  can  ha' 
come  a'  the  way  to  Pairth  for  naething  but 
that  ?" 

The  expression  of  suspicion  began  to  show 
itself  again  in  his  face.  Concealing  as  she  best 
might  the  disgust  that  he  inspired  in  her,  Anne 
stated  her  errand  in  the  most  direct  manner,  and 
in  the  fewest  possible  words. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  for  something," 
she  said. 

' '  Ay  ?  ay  ?  What  may  it  be  ye're  wanting  of 
me?" 

"  I  want  the  letter  I  lost  at  Craig  Fernie." 

Even  the  solidly-founded  self-possession  of 
Bishopriggs  himself  was  shaken  by  the  startling 
directness  of  that  attack  on  it.  His  glib  tongue 
was  paralyzed  for  the  moment.  "I  dinna  ken 
what  ye're  drivin'  at,"  he  said,  after  an  interval, 
with  a  sullen  consciousness  that  he  had  been  all 
but  tricked  into  betraying  himself. 

The  change  in  his  manner  convinced  Anne 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


159 


'"MY  AIN  SISTER'S  CHILD!'  CRIED  BISHOPRIGGS." 


that  she  had  found  in  Bishopriggs  the  person  of 
whom  she  was  in  search. 

"You  have  got  my  letter,"  she  said,  sternly 
insisting  on  the  truth.  "And  you  are  trying  to 
turn  it  to  a  disgraceful  use.  I  won't  allow  you 
to  make  a  market  of  my  private  affairs.  You 
have  offered  a  letter  of  mine  for  sale  to  a  stran- 
ger. I  insist  on  your  restoring  it  to  me  before  I 
leave  this  room!" 

Bishopriggs  hesitated  again.  His  first  suspi- 
cion that  Anne  had  been  privately  instructed  by 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  lawyers  returned  to  his  mind  as 
a  suspicion  confirmed.  He  felt  the  vast  import- 
ance of  making  a  cautious  reply. 

"  I'll  no'  waste  precious  time,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment's  consideration  with  himself,  "in 
brushing  awa'  the  fawse  breath  o'  scandal,  when 
it  passes  my  way.  It  blaws  to  nae  purpose,  my 
young  leddy,  when  it  blaws  on  an  honest  man 
like  me.  Fie  for  shame  on  ye  for  saying  what 
ye've  joost  said — to  me  that  was  a  fether  to  ye  at 
Craig  Fernie !  Wha'  set  ye  on  to  it  ?  Will  it 
be  man  or  woman  that's  misca'ed  me  behind  my 
back?" 

Anne  took  the  Glasgow  newspaper  from  the 
pocket  of  her  traveling  cloak,  and  placed  it  be- 
fore him,  open  at  the  paragraph  which  described 
the  act  of  extortion  attempted  on  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"I  have  found  there,"  she  said,  "all  that  I 
want  to  know. " 

"May  a'  the  tribe  o'  editors,  preenters,  paper- 
makers,  news-vendors,  and  the  like,  bleeze  to- 
gether in  the  pit  o'  Tophet !"  With  this  devout 
aspiration — internally  felt,  not  openly  uttered — 
Bishopriggs  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  read  the 
passage  pointed  out  to  him.  "I  see  naething 
here  touching  the  name  o'  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs. 
or  the  matter  o'  ony  loss  ye  may  or  may  not  ha' 


had  at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
done ;  still  defending  his  position,  with  a  resolu- 
tion worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

Anne's  pride  recoiled  at  the  prospect  of  pro- 
longing the  discussion  with  him.  She  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  said  her  last  words. 

"I  have  learned  enough  by  this  time,"  she 
answered,  "to  know  that  the  one  argument  that 
prevails  with  you  is  the  argument  of  money. 
If  money  will  spare  me  the  hateful  necessity  of 
disputing  with  you — poor  as  I  am,  money  you 
shall  have.  Be  silent,  if  you  please.  You  are 
personally  interested  in  what  I  have  to  say  next." 

She  opened  her  purse,  and  took  a  five-pound 
note  from  it. 

"  If  you  choose  to  own  the  truth,  and  produce 
the  letter," she  resumed,  "I  will  give  you  this, 
as  your  reward  for  finding,  and  restoring  to  me, 
something  that  I  had  lost.  If  yon  persist  in  your 
present  prevarication,  I  can,  and  will,  make  that 
sheet  of  note-paper  you  have  stolen  from  me  no- 
thing but  waste  paper  in  your  hands.  You  have 
threatened  Mrs.  Glenarm  with  my  interference. 
Suppose  I  go  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  Suppose  I  in- 
terfere before  the  week  is  out  ?  Suppose  I  have 
other  letters  of  Mr.  Delamayn's  in  my  possession, 
and  produce  them  to  speak  for  me?  What  has 
Mrs.  Glenarm  to  purchase  of  you  then?  An- 
swer me  that!" 

The  color  rose  on  her  pale  face.  Her  eyes, 
dim  and  weary  when  she  entered  the  room,  looked 
him  brightly  through  and  through  in  immeasur- 
able contempt.  "  Answer  me  that !"  she  repeat- 
ed, with  a  burst  of  her  old  energy  which  revealed 
the  fire  and  passion  of  the  woman's  nature,  not 
quenched  even  yet ! 

If  Bishopriggs  had  a  merit,  it  was  a  rare  mer- 
it, as  men  go,  of  knowing  when  he  was  beaten. 


160 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


If  he  had  an  accomplishment,  it  was  the  accom- 
plishment of  retiring  defeated,  with  all  the  hon- 
ors of  war. 

"Mercy  presairve  us!"  he  exclaimed,  in  the 
most  innocent  manner.  "Is  it  even  You  Yer- 
sel'  that  writ  the  letter  to  the  man  ca'ed  Jaffray 
Delamayn,  and  got  the  wee  bit  answer  in  pencil, 
on  the  blank  page?  Hoo,  in  Heeven's  name, 
was  I  to  know  that  was  the  letter  ye  were  after 
when  ye  cam'  in  here  ?  Did  ye  ever  tell  me  ye 
were  Anne  Silvester,  at  the  bottle  ?  Never  ance ! 
Was  the  puir  feckless  husband-creature  ye  had 
wi'  ye  at  the  inn,  Jaffray  Delamayn  ?  Jaffray 
wad"  mak'  twa  o'  him,  as  my  ain  eyes  ha'  seen.  Gi' 
ye  back  yer  letter  ?  My  certie !  noo  I  know  it  is 
yer  letter,  I'll  gi'  it  back  wi'  a'  the  pleasure  in  life ! " 

He  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  took  it  out, 
with  an  alacrity  worthy  of  the  honestest  man  in 
Christendom  —  and  (more  wonderful  still)  he 
looked  with  a  perfectly  assumed  expression  of  in- 
difference at  the  five-pound  note  in  Anne's  hand. 

"Hoot!  toot!"  he  said,  "I'm  no'  that  clear 
in  my  mind  that  I'm  free  to  tak'  yer  money. 
Eh,  weel !  weel !  I'll  een  receive  it,  if  ye  like,  as 
a  bit  Memento  o'  the  time  when  I  was  o'  some 
sma'  sairvice  to  ye  at  the  hottle.  Ye'll  no'  mind," 
he  added,  suddenly  returning  to  business,  "  writ- 
iu'  me  joost  a  line — in  the  way  o'  receipt,  ye  ken 
— to  clear  me  o'  ony  future  suspicion  in  the  mat- 
ter o'  the  letter?" 

Anne  threw  down  the  bank-note  on  the  table 
near  which  they  were  standing,  and  snatched 
the  letter  from  him. 

"  You  need  no  receipt,"she  answered.  "  There 
shall  be  no  letter  to  bear  witness  against  you !" 

She  lifted  her  other  hand  to  tear  it  in  pieces. 
Bishopriggs  caught  her  by  both  wrists,  at  the 
same  moment,  and  held  her  fast. 

"  Bide  a  wee !"  he  said.  "  Ye  don't  get  the 
letter,  young  madam,  without  the  receipt.  It 
may  be  a'  the  same  to  you,  now  ye've  married 
the  other  man,  whether  Jaffray  Delamayn  ance 
promised  ye  fair  in  the  by-gone  time,  or  no.  But, 
my  certie !  it's  a  matter  o'  some  moment  to  me, 
that  ye've  chairged  wi'  stealin'  the  letter,  and 
making  a  market  o't,  and  Lord  knows  what  be- 
sides, that  I  suld  hae  yer  ain  acknowledgment 
for  it  in  black  and  white.  Gi'  me  my  bit  receipt 
— and  een  do  as  ye  will  with  yer  letter  after  that ! " 

Anne's  hold  of  the  letter  relaxed.  She  let 
Bishopriggs  repossess  himself  of  it  as  it  dropped 
on  the  floor  between  them,  without  making  an 
effort  to  prevent  him. 

"  It  may  be  a'  the  same  to  you,  now  ye've  mar- 
ried the  other  man,  whether  Jaffray  Delamayn 
ance  promised  ye  fair  in  the  by-gone  time,  or  no." 
Those  words  presented  Anne's  position  before 
her  in  a  light  in  which  she  had  not  seen  it  yet. 
She  had  truly  expressed  the  loathing  that  Geof- 
frey now  inspired  in  her,  when  she  had  declared, 
in  her  letter  to  Arnold,  that,  even  if  he  offered 
her  marriage,  in  -atonement  for  the  past,  she 
would  rather  be  what  she  was  than  be  his  wife. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her,  until  this  moment, 
that  others  would  misinterpret  the  sensitive  pride 
which  had  prompted  the  abandonment  of  her 
claim  on  the  man  who  had  ruined  her.  It  had 
never  been  brought  home  to  her  until  now,  that 
if  she  left  him  contemptuously  to  go  his  own 
way,  and  sell  himself  to  the  first  woman  who  had 
money  enough  to  buy  him,  her  conduct  would 
sanction  the  false  conclusion  that  she  was  power- 


less to  interfere,  because  she  was  married  already 
to  another  man.  The  color  that  had  risen  in  he'r 
face  vanished,  and  left  it  deadly  pale  again. 
She  began  to  see  that  the  purpose  of  her  journey 
to  the  north  was  not  completed  yet. 

"I  will  give  you  your  receipt,"  she  said.  • 
"Tell  me  what  to  write,  and  it  shall  be  written." 

Bishopriggs  dictated  the  receipt.  She  wrote 
and  signed  it.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket-book  with 
the  five-pound  note,  and  handed  her  the  letter  in 
exchange. 

"Tear  it  if  ye  will,"  he  said.  "It  matters 
naething  to  me." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  A  sudden  shud- 
dering shook  her  from  head  to  foot — the  forewarn- 
ing, it  might  be,  of  the  influence  which  that  letter, 
saved  from  destruction  by  a  hair's-breadth,  was 
destined  to  exercise  on  her  life  to  come.  She 
recovered  herself,  and  folded  her  cloak  closer  to 
her,  as  if  she  had  felt  a  passing  chill. 

"  No,"  she  said ;   "  I  will  keep  the  letter." 

She  folded  it  and  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  her 
dress.  Then  turned  to  go — and  stopped  at  the 
door. 

"One  thing  more,"  she  added.  "Do  you 
know  Mrs.  Glenarm's  present  address  ?" 

"  Ye're  no'  reely  going  to  Mistress  Glenarm  ?" 

"That  is  no  concern  of  yours.  You  can  an- 
swer my  question  or  not,  as  you  please. " 

"  Eh,  my  leddy !  yer  temper's  no'  what  it  used 
to  be  in  the  auld  times  at  the  hottle.  Aweel! 
aweel !  jre  ha'  gi'en  me  yer  money,  and  I'll  een 
gi'  ye  back  gude  measure  for  it,  on  my  side. 
Mistress  Glenarm's  awa'  in  private — incog,  as 
they  say — to  Jaffray  Delamayn 's  brither  at  Swan- 
haven  Lodge.  Ye  may  rely  on  the  information, 
and  it's  no'  that  easy  to  come  at  either.  They've 
keepit  it  a  secret  as  they  think  from  a'  the  warld. 
Hech!  hech!  Tammy  Pennyquick's  youngest 
but  twa  is  page-boy  at  the  hoose  where  the  led- 
dy's  been  veesitin',  on  the  outskirts  o1  Pairth. 
Keep  a  secret  if  ye  can  frae  the  pawky  ears  o' 
yer  domestics  in  the  servants'  hall ! — Eh !  she's 
aff,  without  a  word  at  parting !"  he  exclaimed, 
as  Anne  left  him  without  ceremony  in  the  middle 
of  his  dissertation  on  secrets  and  servants'  halls. 
"  I  trow  I  ha'  gaen  out  for  wool,  and  come  back 
shorn,"  he  added,  reflecting  grimly  on  the  disas- 
trous overthrow  of  the  promising  speculation  on 
which  he  had  embarked.  "My  certie!  there 
was  naething  left  for't,  when  madam's  fingers  had 
grippit  me,  but  to  slip  through  them  as  cannily 
as  I  could.  What's  Jaffray's  marrying,  or  no' 
marrying,  to  do  wi'  her?"  he  wondered,  revert- 
ing to  the  question  which  Anne  had  put  to  him 
at  parting.  "And  whar's  the  sense  o'  her  er- 
rand, if  she's  reely  bent  on  finding  her  way  to 
Mistress  Glenarm  ?" 

Whatever  the  sense  of  her  errand  might  be, 
Anne's  next  proceeding  proved  that  she  was  real- 
ly bent  on  it.  After  resting  two  days,  she  left 
Perth  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  for  Swan- 
haven  Lodge. 


NINTH  SCENE.- THE  MUSIC-ROOM. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTIETH. 

JULIUS    MAKES    MISCHIEF. 

JULIUS  DELAMAYN  was  alone  ;  idly  saunter- 
ing to  and  fro,  with  his  violin  in  his  hand,  on  the 
terrace  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


161 


The  first  mellow  light  of  evening  was  in  the 
sky.  It  was  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  Anne 
Silvester  had  left  Perth. 

Some  hours  earlier,  Julius  had  sacrificed  him- 
self to  the  duties  of  his  political  position — as 
made  for  him  by  his  father.  He  had  submitted 
to  the  dire  necessity  of  delivering  an  oration  to 
the  electors,  at  a  public  meeting  in  the  neighbor- 
ing town  of  Kirkandrew.  A  detestable  atmos- 
phere to  breathe;  a  disorderly  audience  to  ad- 
dress ;  insolent  opposition  to  conciliate ;  imbe- 
cile inquiries  to  answer ;  brutish  interruptions  to 
endure ;  greedy  petitioners  to  pacify ;  and  dirty 
hands  to  shake :  these  are  the  stages  by  which 
the  aspiring  English  gentleman  is  compelled  to 
travel  on  the  journey  which  leads  him  from  the 
modest  obscurity  of  private  life  to  the  glorious 
publicity  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Julius 
paid  the  preliminary  penalties  of  a  political  first 
appearance,  as  exacted  by  free  institutions,  with 
the  necessary  patience ;  and  returned  to  the  wel- 
come shelter  of  home,  more  indifferent,  if  possi- 
ble, to  the  attractions  of  Parliamentary  distinc- 
tion than  when  he  set  out.  The  discord  of  the 
roaring  "people"  (still  echoing  in  his  ears)  had 
sharpened  his  customary  sensibility  to  the  poetry 
of  sound,  as  composed  by  Mozart,  and  as  inter- 
preted by  piano  and  violin.  Possessing  himself 
of  his  beloved  instrument,  he  had  gone  out  on 
the  terrace  to  cool  himself  in  the  evening  air, 
pending  the  arrival  of  the  servant  whom  he  had 
summoned  by  the  music-room  bell.  The  man 
appeared  at  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the 
room ;  and  reported,  in  answer  to  his  master's 
inquiry,  that  Mrs.  Julius  Delamayn  was  out  pay- 
ing visits,  and  was  not  expected  to  return  for  an- 
other hour  at  least. 

Julius  groaned  in  spirit.  The  finest  music 
•which  Mozart  has  written  for  the  violin  associ- 
ates that  instrument  with  the  piano.  Without 
the  wife  to  help  him,  the  husband  was  mute. 
After  an  instant's  consideration,  Julius  hit  on  an 
idea  which  promised,  in  some  degree,  to  remedy 
the  disaster  of  Mrs.  Delamayn's  absence  from 
home. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Glenarm  gone  out,  too  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Sir." 

"  My  compliments.  If  Mrs.  Glenarra  has  no- 
thing else  to  do,  will  she  be  so  kind  as  to  come 
to  me  in  the  music-room  ?" 

The  servant  went  away  with  his  message.  Ju- 
lius seated  himself  on  one  of  the  terrace-benches, 
and  began  to  tune  his  violin. 

Mrs.  Glenarm — rightly  reported  by  Bishop- 
riggs  as  having  privately  taken  refuge  from  her 
anonymous  correspondent  at  Swanhaven  Lodge 
— was,  musically  speaking,  far  from  being  an  ef- 
ficient substitute  for  Mrs.  Delamayn.  Julius 
possessed,  in  his  wife,  one  of  the  few  players  on 
the  piano-forte  under  whose  subtle  touch  that 
shallow  and  soulless  instrument  becomes  inspired 
with  expression  not  its  own,  and  produces  music 
instead  of  noise.  The  fine  organization  which 
can  work  this  miracle  had  not  been  bestowed  on 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  had  been  carefully  taught ; 
and  she  was  to  be  trusted  to  play  correctly — and 
that  was  all.  Julius,  hungry  for  music,  and  re- 
signed to  circumstances,  asked  for  no  more. 

The  servant  returned  with  his  answer.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  would  join  Mr.  Delamayn  in  the  music- 
room  in  ten  minutes'  time. 

Julius  rose,  relieved,  and  resumed  his  saunter- 


ing walk ;  now  playing  little  snatches  of  music  ; 
now  stopping  to  look  at  the  flowers  on  the  ter- 
race, with  an  eye  that  enjoyed  their  beauty,  and 
a  hand  that  fondled  them  with  caressing  touch. 
If  Imperial  Parliament  had  seen  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, Imperial  Parliament  must  have  given  no- 
tice of  a  question  to  his  illustrious  father :  Is  it 
possible,  my  lord,  that  you  can  have  begotten 
such  a  Member  as  this  ? 

After  stopping  for  a  moment  to  tighten  one  of 
the  strings  of  his  violin,  Julius,  raising  his  head 
from  the  instrument,  was  surprised  to  see  a  lady 
approaching  him  on  the  terrace.  Advancing  to 
meet  her,  and  perceiving  that  she  was  a  total 
stranger  to  him,  he  assumed  that  she  was,  in  all 
probability,  a  visitor  to  his  wife. 

"  Have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Delamayn's?"  he  asked.  "My  wife  is  not 
at  home,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  I  am  a  stranger  to  Mrs.  Delamayn,"  the  lady 
answered.  "  The  servant  informed  me  that  she 
had  gone  out ;  and  that  I  should  find  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn here." 

Julius  bowed — and  waited  to  hear  more. 

"I  must  beg  you  to  forgive  my  intrusion," 
the  stranger  went  on.  "My  object  is  to  ask 
permission  to  see  a  lady  who  is,  I  have  been  in- 
formed, a  guest  in  your  house. " 

The  extraordinary  formality  of  the  request 
rather  puzzled  Julius. 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Glenarm?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Pray  don't  think  any  permission  necessary. 
A  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  may  take  her  wel- 
come for  granted  in  this  house." 

"  I  am  not  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  I  am  a 
total  stranger  to  her. " 

This  made  the  ceremonious  request  preferred 
by  the  lady  a  little  more  intelligible — but  it  left 
the  lady's  object  in  wishing  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm  still  in  the  dark.  Julius  politely  waited, 
until  it  pleased  her  to  proceed  further,  and  ex- 
plain herself.  The  explanation  did  not  appear 
to  be  an  easy  one  to  give.  Her  eyes  dropped  to 
the  ground.  She  hesitated  painfully. 

"My  name — if  I  mention  it,"  she  resumed, 
without  looking  up,  "  may  possibly  inform  you — " 
She  paused.  Her  color  came  and  went.  She 
hesitated  again ;  struggled  with  her  agitation, 
and  controlled  it.  "I  am  Anne  Silvester,"  she 
said,  suddenly  raising  her  pale  face,  and  sudden- 
ly steadying  her  trembling  voice. 

Julius  started,  and  looked  at  her  in  silent  sur- 
prise. 

The  name  was  doubly  known  to  him.  Not 
long  since,  he  had  heard  it  from  his  father's  lips, 
at  his  father's  bedside.  Lord  Holchester  had 
charged  him,  had  earnestly  charged  him,  to  bear 
that  name  in  mind,  and  to  help  the  woman  who 
bore  it,  if  the  woman  ever  applied  to  him  in  time 
to  come.  Again,  he  had  heard  the  name,  more 
lately,  associated  scandalously  with  the  name  of 
his  brother.  On  the  receipt  of  the  first  of  the 
anonymous  letters  sent  to  her,  Mrs.  Glenarm  had 
not  only  summoned  Geoffrey  himself  to  refute 
the  aspersion  cast  upon  him,  but  had  forwarded 
a  private  copy  of  the  letter  to  his  relatives  at 
Swanhaven.  Geoffrey's  defense  had  not  entirely 
satisfied  Julius  that  his  brother  was  free  from 
blame.  As  he  now  looked  at  Anne  Silvester,  the 
doubt  returned  upon  him  strengthened — almost 
confirmed.  Was  this  woman — so  modest,  so  gen- 


162 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


tie,  so  simply  and  unaffectedly  refined — the  shame- 
less adventuress  denounced  by  Geoffrey,  as  claim- 
ing him  on  the  strength  of  a  foolish  flirtation ; 
knowing  herself,  at  the  time,  to  be  privately  mar- 
ried to  another  man  ?  Was  this  woman — with 
the  voice  of  a  lady,  the  look  of  a  lady,  the  man- 
ner of  a  lady — in  league  (as  Geoffrey  had  de- 
clared) with  the  illiterate  vagabond  who  was  at- 
tempting to  extort  money  anonymously  from 
Mrs.  Glenarm  ?  Impossible !  Making  every  al- 
lowance for  the  proverbial  deceitfulness  of  ap- 
pearances, impossible ! 

"  Your  name  has  been  mentioned  to  me,"  said 
Julius,  answering  her  after  a  momentary  pause. 
His  instincts,  as  a  gentleman,  made  him  shrink 
from  referring  to  the  association  of  her  name 
with  the  name  of  his  brother.  "My  father 
mentioned  you,"  he  added,  considerately  ex- 
plaining his  knowledge  of  her  in  that  way, 
"  when  I  last  saw  him  in  London." 

"  Your  father !"  She  came  a  step  nearer,  with 
a  look  of  distrust  as  well  as  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment in  her  face.  "Your  father  is  Lord  Hol- 
chester — is  he  not?" 

"Yes." 

"What  made  him  speak  ofmef" 

"He  was  ill  at  the  time,"  Julius  answered. 
"And  he  had  been  thinking  of  events  in  his  past 
life  with  which  I  am  entirely  unacquainted.  He 
said  he  had  known  your  father  and  mother.  He 
desired  me,  if  you  were  ever  in  want  of  any  as- 
sistance, to  place  my  services  at  your  disposal. 
When  he  expressed  that  wish,  he  spoke  very 
earnestly — he  gave  me  the  impression  that  there 
was  a  feeling  of  regret  associated  with  the  recol- 
lections on  which  he  had  been  dwelling. " 

Slowly,  and  in  silence,  Anne  drew  back  to  the 
low  wall  of  the  terrace  close  by.  She  rested  one 
hand  on  it  to  support  herself.  Julius  had  said 
words  of  terrible  import  without  a  suspicion  of 
what  he  had  done.  Never  until  now  had  Anne 
Silvester  known  that  the  man  who  had  betrayed 
her  was  the  son  of  that  other  man  whose  discov- 
ery of  the  flaw  in  the  marriage  had  ended  in  the 
betrayal  of  her  mother  before  her.  She  felt  the 
shock  of  the  revelation  with  a  chill  of  supersti- 
tious dread.  Was  the  chain  of  a  fatality  wound 
invisibly  round  her  ?  Turn  which  way  she  might, 
was  she  still  going  darkly  on,  in  the  track  of  her 
dead  mother,  to  an  appointed  and  hereditary 
doom  ?  Present  things  passed  from  her  view  as 
the  awful  doubt  cast  its  shadow  over  her  mind. 
She  lived  again  for  a  moment  in  the  time  when 
she  was  a  child.  She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother 
once  more,  with  the  wan  despair  on  it  of  the  by- 
gone days  when  the  title  of  wife  was  denied  her, 
and  the  social  prospect  was  closed  forever. 

Julius  approached,  and  roused  her. 

"  Can  I  get  you  any  thing  ?"  he  asked.  "  Yon 
are  looking  very  ill.  I  hope  I  have  said  nothing 
to  distress  you  ?" 

The  question  failed  to  attract  her  attention. 
She  put  a  question  herself  instead  of  answering  it. 
•  "  Did  you  say  you  were  quite  ignorant  of  what 
your  father  was  thinking  of  when  he  spoke  to  you 
about  me  ?" 

"Quite  ignorant." 

"Is  your  brother  likely  to  know  more  about 
it  than  you  do  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

She  paused,  absorbed  once  more  in  her  own 
thoughts.  Startled,  on  the  memorable  day  when 


they  had  first  met,  by  Geoffrey's  family  name, 
she  had  put  the  question  to  him  whether  there 
had  not  been  some  acquaintance  between  their 
parents  in  the  past  time.  Deceiving  her  in  all 
else,  he  had  not  deceived  in  this.  He  had  spok- 
en in  good  faith,  when  he  had  declared  that  he 
had  never  heard  her  father  or  her  mother  men- 
tioned at  home. 

The  curiosity  of  Julius  was  aroused.  He  at- 
tempte'd  to  lead  her  on  into  saying  more. 

"  You  appear  to  know  what  my  father  was 
thinking  of  when  he  spoke  to  me,"  he  resumed. 
"May  I  ask — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of  en- 
treaty. 

"  Pray  don't  ask !  It's  past  and  over — it  can 
have  no  interest  for  you — it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  my  errand  here.  I  must  return,"  she  went 
on,  hurriedly,  "to  my  object  in  trespassing  on 
your  kindness.  Have  you  heard  me  mentioned, 
Mr.  Delamayn,  by  another  member  of  your  fam- 
ily besides  your  father?" 

"  Julius  had  not  anticipated  that  she  would  ap- 
proach, of  her  own  accord,  the  painful  subject 
on  which  he  had  himself  forborne  to  touch.  He 
was  a  little  disappointed.  He  had  expected  more 
delicacy  of  feeling  from  her  than  she  had  shown. 

"Is  it  necessary,"  he  asked,  coldly,  "  to  enter 
on  that  ?" 

The  blood  rose  again  in  Anne's  cheeks. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  necessary,"  she  answered, 
"do  you  think  I  could  have  forced  myself  to 
mention  it  to  you?  Let  me  remind  you  that  I 
am  here  on  sufferance.  If  I  don't  speak  plainly 
(no  matter  at  what  sacrifice  to  my  own  feelings), 
I  make  my  situation  more  embarrassing  than  it 
is  already.  I  have  something  to  tell  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  relating  to  the  anonymous  letters  which  she 
has  lately  received.  And  I  have  a  word  to  say 
to  her,  next,  about  her  contemplated  marriage. 
Before  you  allow  me  to  do  this,  you  ought  to 
know  who  I  am.  (I  have  owned  it.)  You  ought 
to  have  heard  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  my 
conduct.  (Your  face  tells  me  you  have  heard 
the  worst.)  After  the  forbearance  you  have 
shown  to  me,  as  a  perfect  stranger,  I  will  not 
commit  the  meanness  of  taking  you  by  surprise. 
Perhaps,  Mr.  Delamayn,  you  understand,  now, 
why  I  felt  myself  obliged  to  refer  to  your  brother. 
Will  you  trust  me  with  permission  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 

It  was  simply  and  modestly  said — with  an  un- 
affected and  touching  resignation  of  look  and 
manner.  Julius  gave  her  back  the  respect  and 
the  sympathy  which,  for  a  moment,  he  had  un- 
justly withheld  from  her. 

"You  have  placed  a  confidence  in  me,"  he 
said,  "which  most  persons  in  your  situation 
would  have  withheld.  I  feel  bound,  in  return, 
to  place  confidence  in  you.  I  will  take  it  for 
granted  that  your  motive  in  this  matter  is  one 
which  it  is  my  duty  to  respect.  It  will  be  for 
Mrs.  Glenarm  to  say  whether  she  wishes  the  in- 
terview to  take  place  or  not.  All  that  I  can  do 
is  to  leave  you  free  to  propose  it  to  her.  You 
are  free. " 

As  he  spoke  the  sound  of  the  piano  reached 
them  from  the  music-room.  Julius  pointed  to 
the  glass  door  which  opened  on  to  the  terrace. 

"You  have  only  to  go  in  by  that  door,"  he 
said,  "  and  you  will  find  Mrs.  Glenarm  alone." 

Anne  bowed,  and  left  him.     Arrived  at  the 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


163 


short  flight  of  steps  which  led  up  to  the  door, 
she  paused  to  collect  her  thoughts  before  she 
went  in. 

A  sudden  reluctance  to  go  on  and  enter  the 
room  took  possession  of  her,  as  sjie  waited  with 
her  foot  on  the  lower  step.  The  report  of  Mrs. 
Glenarra's  contemplated  marriage  had  produced 
no  such  effect  on  her  as  Sir  Patrick  had  sup- 
posed :  it  had  found  no  love  for  Geoffrey  left  to 
wound,  no  latent  jealousy  only  waiting  to  be  in- 
flamed. Her  object  in  taking  the  journey  to 
Perth  was  completed  when  her  correspondence 
with  Geoffrey  was  in  her  own  hands  again.  The 
change  of  purpose  which  had  brought  her  to 
Swanhaven  was  due  entirely  to  the  new  view 
of  her  position  toward  Mrs.  Glenarm  which  the 
coarse  common-sense  of  Bishopriggs  had  first 
suggested  to  her.  If  she  failed  to  protest  against 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  marriage,  in  the  interests  of  the 
reparation  which  Geoffrey  owed  to  her,  her  con- 
duct would  only  confirm  Geoffrey's  audacious  as- 
sertion that  she  was  a  married  woman  already. 
For  her  own  sake  she  might  still  have  hesitated 
to  move  in  the  matter.  But  Blanche's  interests 
were  concerned  as  well  as  her  own ;  and,  for 
Blanche's  sake,  she  had  resolved  on  making  the 
journey  to  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

At  the  same  time,  feeling  toward  Geoffrey  as 
she  felt  now — conscious  as  she  was  of  not  really 
desiring  the  reparation  on  which  she  was  about 
to  insist — it  was  essential  to  the  preservation  of 
her  own  self-respect  that  she  should  have  some 
purpose  in  view  which  could  justify  her  to  her 
own  conscience  in  assuming  the  character  of 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  rival. 

She  had  only  to  call  to  mind  the  critical  situa- 
tion of  Blanche — and  to  see  her  purpose  before 
her  plainly.  Assuming  that  she  could  open  the 
coming  interview  by  peaceably  proving  that  her 
claim  on  Geoffrey  was  beyond  dispute,  she  might 
then,  without  fear  of  misconception,  take  the 
tone  of  a  friend  instead  of  an  enemy,  and  might, 
with  the  best  grace,  assure  Mrs.  Glenarm  that  she 
had  no  rivalry  to  dread,  on  the  one  easy  condi- 
tion that  she  engaged  to  make  Geoffrey  repair 
the  evil  that  he  had  done.  "Marry  him  with- 
out a  word  against  it  to  dread  from  me — so  long 
as  he  unsays  the  words  and  undoes  the  deeds 
which  have  thrown  a  doubt  on  the  marriage  of 
Arnold  and  Blanche."  If  she  could  but  bring 
the  interview  to  this  end — there  was  the  way 
found  of  extricating  Arnold,  by  her  own  exer- 
tions, from  the  false  position  in  which  she  had 
innocently  placed  him  toward  his  wife!  Such 
was  the  object  before  her,  as  she  now  stood  on 
the  brink  of  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Up  to  this  moment,  she  had  firmly  believed  in 
her  capacity  to  realize  her  own  visionary  project. 
It  was  only  when  she  had  her  foot  on  the  step 
that  a  doubt  of  the  success  of  the  coming  exper- 
iment crossed  her  mind.  For  the  first  time,  she 
saw  the  weak  point  in  her  own  reasoning.  For 
the  first  time,  she  felt  how  much  she  had  blindly 
taken  for  granted,  in  assuming  that  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm would  have  sufficient  sense  of  justice  and 
sufficient  command  of  temper  to  hear  her  patient- 
ly. All  her  hopes  of  success  rested  on  her  own 
favorable  estimate  of  a  woman  who  was  a  total 
stranger  to  her!  What  if  the  first  words  ex- 
changed between  them  proTed  the  estimate  to  be 
wrong  ? 


It  was  too  late  to  pause  and  reconsider  the 
position.  Julius  Delamayn  had  noticed  her  hes- 
itation, and  was  advancing  toward  her  from  the 
end  of  the  terrace.  There  was  no  help  for  it  but 
to  master  her  own  irresolution,  and  to  run  the 
risk  boldly.  "  Come  what  may,  I  have  gone  too 
far  to  stop  here."  With  that  desperate  resolution 
to  animate  her,  she  opened  the  glass  door  at  the 
top  of  the  steps,  and  went  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  from  the  piano.  The  two 
women  —  one  so  richly,  the  other  so  plainly 
dressed ;  one  with  her  beauty  in  its  full  bloom, 
the  other  worn  and  blighted ;  one  with  society 
at  her  feet,  the  other  an  outcast  living  under  the 
bleak  shadow  of  reproach — the  two  women  stood 
face  to  face,  and  exchanged  the  cold  courtesies 
of  salute  between  strangers,  in  silence.  • 

The  first  to  meet  the  trivial  necessities  of  the 
situation  was  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  good-humor- 
edly  put  an  end  to  the  embarrassment — which 
the  shy  visitor  appeared  to  feel  acutely  —  by 
speaking  first. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  servants  have  not  told  yon  ?" 
she  said.  "Mrs.  Delamayn  has  gone  out." 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  have  not  called  to  see 
Mrs.  Delamayn." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  looked  a  little  surprised.  She 
went  on,  however,  as  amiably  as  before. 

' '  Mr.  Delamayn,  perhaps  ?"  she  suggested.  "  I 
expect  him  here  every  moment." 

Anne  explained  again.  "I  have  just  parted 
from  Mr.  Delamayn."  Mrs.  Glenarm  opened  her 
eyes  in  astonishment.  Anne  proceeded.  "I 
have  come  here,  if  you  will  excuse  the  intru- 
sion— " 

She  hesitated — at  a  loss  how  to  end  the  sen- 
tence. Mrs.  Glenarm,  beginning  by  this  time 
to  feel  a  strong  curiosity  as  to  what  might  be 
coming  next,  advanced  to  the  rescue  once  more. 

"Pray  don't  apologize,"  she  said.  "I  think 
I  understand  that  you  are  so  good  as  to  have 
come  to  see  me.  You  look  tired.  Won't  you 
take  a  chair  ?" 

Anne  could  stand  no  longer.  She  took  the 
offered  chair.  Mrs.  Glenarm  resumed  her  place 
on  the  music-stool,  and  ran  her  fingers  idly  over 
the  keys  of  the  piano.  "Where  did  you  see 
Mr.  Delamayn?"  she  went  on.  "The  most  ir- 
responsible of  men,  except  when  he  has  got  his 
fiddle  in  his  hand !  Is  he  coming  in  soon  ? 
Are  we  going  to  have  any  music?  Have  you 
come  to  play  with  us  ?  Mr.  Delamayn  is  a  per- 
fect fanatic  in  music,  isn't  he  ?  Why  isn't  he 
here  to  introduce  us  ?  I  suppose  you  like  the 
classical  style,  too  ?  Did  you  know  that  I  was 
in  the  music-room  ?  Might  I  ask  your  name  ?" 

Frivolous  as  they  were,  Mrs.  Glenarm's  ques- 
tions were  not  without  their  use.  They  gave 
Anne  time  to  summon  her  resolution,  and  to  feel 
the  necessity  of  explaining  herself. 

"  I  am  speaking,  I  believe,  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 
she  began. 

The  good-humored  widow  smiled  and  bowed 
graciously. 

"I  have  come  here,  Mrs.  Glenarm — by  Mr. 
Delamayn's  permission — to  ask  leave  to  speak  to 
you  on  a  matter  in  which  you  are  interested." 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  many-ringed  fingers  paused 
over  the  keys  of  the  piano.  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
plump  face  turned  on  the  stranger  with  a  dawn- 
ing expression  of  surprise. 


1C4 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"Indeed?  I  am  interested  in  so  many  mat- 
ters. May  I  ask  what  this  matter  is?" 

The  flippant  tone  of  the  speaker  jarred  on 
Anne.  If  Mrs.  Glenarm's  nature  was  as  shallow 
as  it  appeared  to  be  on  the  surface,  there  was  lit- 
tle hope  of  any  sympathy  establishing  itself  be- 
tween them. 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you,"  she  answered, 
"  about  something  that  happened  while  you  were 
paying  a  visit  in  the  neighborhood  of  Perth." 

The  dawning  surprise  in  Mrs.  Glenarm's  face 
became  intensified  into  an  expression  of  distrust. 
Her  hearty  manner  vanished  under  a  veil  of  con- 
ventional civility,  drawn  over  it  suddenly.  She 
looked  at  Anne.  "  Never  at  the  best  of  times  a 
beauty,"  she  thought.  "Wretchedly  out  of 
health  now.  Dressed  like  a  servant,  and  looking 
like  a  lady.  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

The  last  doubt  was  not  to  be  borne  in  silence 
by  a  person  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  temperament. 
She  addressed  herself  to  the  solution  of  it  with 
the  most  unblushing  directness — dextrously  ex- 
cused by  the  most  winning  frankness  of  manner. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said.  "My  memory  for 
faces  is  a  bad  one ;  and  I  don't  think  you  heard 
me  just  now,  when  I  asked  for  your  name. 
Have  we  ever  met  before  ?" 

"Never." 

"And  yet — if  I  understand  what  you  are  re- 
ferring to — you  wish  to  speak  to  me  about  some- 
thing which  is  only  interesting  to  myself  and  my 
most  intimate  friends." 

"You  understand  me  quite  correctly,"  said 
Anne.  "I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  some 
anonymous  letters — " 

"For  the  third  time,  will  you  permit  me  to 
ask  for  your  name  ?" 

"You  shall  hear  it  directly — if  you  will  first 
allow  me  to  finish  what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  wish 
— if  I  can — to  persuade  you  that  I  come  hei'e  as 
a  friend,  before  I  mention  my  name.  You  will, 
I  am  sure,  not  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  you 
need  dread  no  further  annoyance — " 

"Pardon  me  once  more," said  Mrs.  Glenarm, 
interposing  for  the  second  time.  "I  am  at  a 
loss  to  know  to  what  I  am  to  attribute  this  kind 
interest  in  my  affairs  on  the  part  of  a  total 
stranger. " 

This  time,  her  tone  was  more  than  politely 
cold — it  was  politely  impertinent.  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  had  lived  all  her  life  in  good  society,  and 
was  a  perfect  mistress  of  the  subtleties  of  refined 
insolence  in  her  intercourse  with  those  who  in- 
curred her  displeasure. 

Anne's  sensitive  nature  felt  the  wound — but 
Anne's  patient  courage  submitted.  She  put  away 
from  her  the  insolence  which  had  tried  to  sting,' 
and  went  on,  gently  and  firmly,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

"The  person  who  wrote  to  you  anonymously," 
she  said,  "alluded  to  a  correspondence.  He  is 
no  longer  in  possession  of  it.  The  correspond- 
ence has  passed  into  hands  which  may  be  trusted 
to  respect  it.  It  will  be  put  to  no  base  use  in  the 
future — I  answer  for  that. " 

"You  answer  for  that?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  She  suddenly  leaned  forward  over  the  pi- 
ano, and  fixed  her  eyes  in  unconcealed  scrutiny 
on  Anne's  face.  The  violent  temper,  so  often 
found  in  combination  with  the  weak  nature,  be- 
gan to  show  itself  in  her  rising  color,  and  her 
lowering  brow.  "  How  do  you  know  what  the 


person  wrote  ?"  she  asked.  "  How  do  you  know 
that  the  correspondence  has  passed  into  other 
hands?  Who  are  you?"  Before  Anne  could 
answer  her,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  electrified  by 
a  new  idea.  "  The  man  who  wrote  to  me  spoke 
of  something  else  besides  a  correspondence.  He 
spoke  of  a  woman.  I  have  found  you  out!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  jealous  fury.  ' '  You 
are  the  woman ! " 

Anne  rose  on  her  side,  still  in  firm  possession 
of  her  self-control. 

"Mrs.  Glenarm,"  she  said,  calmly,  "I  warn 
— no,  I  entreat  you — not  to  take  that  tone  with 
me.  Compose  yourself;  and  I  promise  to  satis- 
fy you  that  you  are  more  interested  than  you  are 
willing  to  believe  in  what  I  have  still  to  say. 
Pray  bear  with  me  for  a  little  longer.  I  admit 
that  you  have  guessed  right.  I  own  that  I  am 
the  miserable  woman  who  has  been  ruined  and 
deserted  by  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"It's  false!"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "You 
wretch !  Do  you  come  to  me  with  your  trumped- 
up  story?  What  does  Julius  Delamayn  mean 
by  exposing  me  to  this?"  Her  indignation  at 
finding  herself  in  the  same  room  with  Anne  broke 
its  way  through,  not  the  restraints  only,  but  the 
common  decencies  of  politeness.  "I'll  ring  for 
the  servants !"  she  said.  "  I'll  have  you  turned 
out  of  the  house." 

She  tried  to  cross  the  fire-place  to  ring  the 
bell.  Anne,  who  was  standing  nearest  to  it, 
stepped  forward  at  the  same  moment.  Without 
saying  a  word,  she  motioned  with  her  hand  to 
the  other  woman  to  stand  back.  There  was  a 
pause.  The  two  waited,  with  their  eyes  steadily 
fixed  on  one  another — each  with  her  resolution 
laid  bare  to  the  other's  view.  In  a  moment 
more,  the  finer  nature  prevailed.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
drew  back  a  step  in  silence. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Anne. 

"Listen  to  you?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glenarm. 
"You  have  no  right  to  be  in  this  house.  You. 
have  no  right  to  force  yourself  in  here.  Leave 
the  room !" 

Anne's  patience — so  firmly  and  admirably  pre- 
served thus  far — began  to  fail  her  at  last. 

"Take  care,  Mrs.  Glenarm!"  she  said,  still 
struggling  with  herself.  "  I  am  not  naturally  a 
patient  woman.  Trouble  has  done  much  to 
tame  my  temper — but  endurance  has  its  limits. 
You  have  reached  the  limits  of  mine.  I  have  a 
claim  to  be  heard — and  after  what  you  have  said 
to  me,  I  will  be  heard  !" 

"  You  have  no  claim !  You  shameless  woman, 
you  are  married  already.  I  know  the  man's 
name.  Arnold  Brinkworth." 

"  Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that?" 

"I  decline  to  answer  a  woman  who  speaks 
of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  in  that  familiar 
way." 

Anne  advanced  a  step  nearer. 

"  Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that?"  she 
repeated. 

There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes,  there  was  a  ring 
in  her  voice,  which  showed  that  she  was  roused 
at  last.  Mrs.  Glenarm  answered  her,  this  time. 

"He  did  tell  me." 

"He  lied!" 

"  He  did  not !  He  knew.  I  believe  him.  I 
don't  believe  you," 

"If  he  told  you  that  I  was  any  thing  but  a 
single  woman — if  he  told  you  that  Arnold  Brink- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


FOR  AN  INSTANT  THEY  FACED  EACH  OTHER." 


worth  was  married  to  any  body  but  Miss  Ltmdie 
of  Windygates — I  say  again  he  lied ! " 

'I  say  again — I  believe  him,  and  not  you." 

'You  believe  I  am  Arnold  Brinkworth's 
wie?" 

'  I  am  certain  of  it. " 

'  You  tell  me  that  to  my  face  ?" 

'  I  tell  you  to  your  face — you  may  have  been 
Geoffrey  Delamayn's  mistress ;  you  are  Arnold 
Brinkworth's  wife." 

At  those  words  the  long -restrained  anger 
leaped  up  in  Anne — all  the  more  hotly  for  having 
been  hitherto  so  steadily  controlled.  In  one 
breathless  moment  the  whirlwind  of  her  indigna- 
tion swept  away,  not  only  all  remembrance  of 
the  purpose  which  had  brought  her  to  Swanhaven, 
but  all  sense  even  of  the  unpardonable  wrong 
which  she  had  suffered  at  Geoffrey's  hands.  If 
he  had  been  there,  at  that  moment,  and  had  of- 
fered to  redeem  his  pledge,  she  would  have  con- 
sented to  marry  him,  while  Mrs.  Glenarm's  eye 
was  on  her — no  matter  whether  she  destroyed 
herself  in  her  first  cool  moment  afterward  or  not. 
The  small  sting  had  planted  ifself  at  last  in  the 
great  nature.  The  noblest  woman  is  only  a  wo- 
man, after  all ! 

"I  forbid  your  marriage  to  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn !  I  insist  on  his  performing  the  promise 
he  gave  me,  to  make  me  his  wife!  I  have  got  it 
here  in  his  own  words,  in  his  own  writing.  On 
his  soul,  he  swears  it  to  me— he  will  redeem  his 
pledge.  His  mistress,  did  you  say?  His  wife, 
Mrs.  Glenarm,  before  the  week  is  out!" 

In  those  wild  words  she  cast  back  the  taunt 
—with  the  letter  held  in  triumph  in  her  hand. 

Daunted  for  the  moment  by  the  doubt  now 
literally  forced  on  her,  that  Anne  might  really 
have  the  claim  on  Geoffrey  which  she  advanced, 


Mrs.  Glenarm  answered  nevertheless  with  the 
obstinacy  of  a  woman  brought  to  bay — with  a 
resolution  not  to  be  convinced  by  conviction  it- 
self. 

"I  won't  give  him  up!"  she  cried.  "Your 
letter  is  a  forgery.  You  have  no  proof.  I  won't, 
I  won't,  I  won't  give  him  up!"  she  repeated, 
with  the  impotent  iteration  of  an  angry  child. 

Anne  pointed  disdainfully  to  the  letter  that 
she  held.  "Here  is  his  pledged  and  written 
word, "  she  said.  "While  I  live,  you  will  never 
be  his  wife. " 

"  I  shall  be  his  wife  the  day  after  the  race.  I 
am  going  to  him  in  London— to  warn  him  against 
You!" 

"  You  will  find  me  in  London,  before  you — 
with  this  in  my  hand.  Do  you  know  his  writ- 
ing?" 

She  held  up  the  letter,  open.  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
hand  flew  out  with  the  stealthy  rapidity  of  a  cat's 
paw,  to  seize  and  destroy  it.  Quick  as  she  was, 
her  rival  was  quicker  still.  For  an  instant  they 
faced  each  other  breathless— one  with  the  letter 
held  behind  her ;  one  with  her  hand  still  stretched 
out. 

At  the  same  moment— before  a  word  more  had 
passed  between  them— the  glass  door  opened; 
and  Julius  Delamayn  appeared  in  the  room. 

He  addressed  himself  to  Anne. 

"We  decided,  on  the  terrace,"  he  said,  quiet- 
ly, "that  you  should  speak  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  if 
Mrs.  Glenarm  wished  it.  Do  you  think  it  de- 
sirable that  the  interview  should  be  continued 
any  longer  ?" 

Anne's  head  drooped  on  her  breast.  The  fiery 
anger  in  her  was  quenched  in  an  instant. 

"I^have  been  cruelly  provoked,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn," she  answered.  "But  I  have  no  right  to 


166 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


plead  that."  She  looked  up  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  hot  tears  of  shame  gathered  in  her 
eves,  and  fell  slowly  over  her  cheeks.  She  bent 
her  head  again,  and  hid  them  from  him.  "  The 
only  atonement  I  can  make, "  she  said,  "  is  to  ask 
your  pardon,  and  to  leave  the  house." 

In  silence,  she  turned  away  to  the  door.  In 
silence,  Julius  Delamayn  paid  her  the  trifling 
courtesy  of  opening  it  for  her.  She  went  out. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  indignation — suspended  for  the 
moment — transferred  itself  to  Julius. 

"If  I  have  been  entrapped  into  seeing  that 
woman,  with  your  approval,"  she  said,  haughtily, 
"I  owe  it  to  myself,  Mr.  Delamayn,  to  follow 
her  example,  and  to  leave  your  house." 

"  I  authorized  her  to  ask  you  for  an  interview, 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  If  she  has  presumed  on  the  per- 
mission that  I  gave  her,  I  sincerely  regret  it,  and 
1  beg  you  to  accept  my  apologies.  At  the  same 
time,  I  may  venture  to  add,  in  defense  of  my 
conduct,  that  I  thought  her — and  think  her  still 
— a  woman  to  be  pitied  more  than  to  be  blamed." 

"To  be  pitied — did  you  say?"  asked  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  doubtful  whether  her  ears  had  not  de- 
ceived her. 

"To  be  pitied, " repeated  Julius. 

"  You  may  find  it  convenient,  Mr.  Delamayn, 
to  forget  what  your  brother  has  told  us  about  that 
person.  /  happen  to  remember  it. " 

"So  do  I,  Mrs.  Glenarm.  But,  with  my  ex- 
perience of  Geoffrey — "  He  hesitated,  and  ran 
his  fingers  nervously  over  the  strings  of  his  vio- 
lin. 

"  You  don't  believe  him  ?"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Julius  declined  to  admit  that  he  doubted  his 
brother's  word,  to  the  lady  who  was  about  to  be- 
come his  brother's  wife. 

"I  don't  quite  go  that  length,".he  said.  "I 
find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  what  Geoffrey  has 
told  us,  with  Miss  Silvester's  manner  and  appear- 
ance— " 

"  Her  appearance !"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm,  in  a 
transport  of  astonishment  and  disgust.  "  Her 
appearance!  Oh,  the  men!  I  beg  your  par- 
don— I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  there  is 
no  accounting  for  tastes.  Go  on — pray  go  on ! " 

"Shall  we  compose  ourselves  with  a  little 
music  ?"  suggested  Julius. 

"I  particularly  request  you  will  go  on,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Glenarm,  emphatically.  "  You  find 
it  '  impossible  to  reconcile'- — " 

"I  said  'difficult.'" 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Difficult  to  recpncile  what 
Geoffrey  told  us,  with  Miss  Silvester's  manner 
and  appearance.  What  next  ?  You  had  some- 
thing else  to  say,  when  I  was  so  rude  as  to  inter- 
rupt you.  What  was  it  ?" 

"Only  this,"  said  Julius.  "I  don't  find  it 
easy  to  understand  Sir  Patrick  Lundie's  conduct 
in  permitting  Mr.  Brinkworth  to  commit  bigamy 
with  his  niece." 

"  Wait  a  minute !  The  marriage  of  that  hor- 
rible woman  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  was  a  private 
marriage.  Of  course,  Sir  Patrick  knew  nothing 
about  it!" 

Julius  owned  that  this  might  be  possible,  and 
made  a  second  attempt  to  lead  the  angry  lady 
back  to  the  piano.  Useless,  once  more  !  Though 
she  shrank  from  confessing  it  to  herself,  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  belief  in  the  genuineness  of  her  lover's 
defense  had  been  shaken.  The  tone  taken  by 
Julius — moderate  as  it  was — revived  the  first 


startling  suspicion  of  the  credibility  of  Geoffrey's 
statement  which  Anne's  language  and  conduct 
had  forced  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  dropped  into 
the  nearest  chair,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  "You  always  hated  poor  Geoffrey," 
she  said,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  "And  now 
you're  defaming  him  to  me!" 

Julius  managed  her  admirably.  On  the  point 
of  answering  her  seriously,  he  checked  himself. 
"I  always  hated  poor  Geoffrey,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  smile.  "  You  ought  to  be  the  last  person 
to  say  that,  Mrs.  Glenarm !  I  brought  him  all 
the  way  from  London  expressly  to  introduce  him 
to  you. " 

"Then  I  wish  you  had  left  him  in  London!" 
retorted  Mrs.  Glenarm,  shifting  suddenly  from 
tears  to  temper.  "  I  was  a  happy  woman  before 
I  met  your  brother.  I  can't  give  him  up!"  she 
burst  out,  shifting  back  again  from  temper  to 
tears.  "  I  don't  care  if  he  lias  deceiyed  me.  I 
won't  let  another  woman  have  him !  I  will  be 
his  wife ! "  She  threw  herself  theatrically  on  her 
knees  before  Julius.  "Oh,  do  help  me  to  find 
out  the  truth ! "  she  said.  "  Oh,  Julius,  pity  me ! 
1  am  so  fond  of  him !" 

There  was  genuine  distress  in  her  face,  there 
was  true  feeling  in  her  voice.  Who  would  have 
believed  that  there  were  reserves  of  merciless  in- 
solence and  heartless  cruelty  in  this  woman — and 
that  they  had  been  lavishly  poured  out  on  a  fall- 
en sister  not  five  minutes  since  ? 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can,"  said  Julius,  raising  her. 
"  Let  us  talk  of  it  when  you  are  more  composed. 
Try  a  little  music,"  he  repeated,  "just  to  quiet 
your  nerves." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play?"  asked  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  becoming  a  model  of  feminine  docility 
at  a  moment's  notice. 

Julius  opened  the  Sonatas  of  Mozart,  and 
shouldered  his  violin. 

"Let's  try  the  Fifteenth,"  he  said,  placing 
Mrs.  Glenarm  at  the  piano.  "We  will  begin 
with  the  Adagio.  If  ever  there  was  divine  mu- 
sic written  by  mortal  man,  there  it  is ! " 

They  began.  At  the  third  bar  Mrs.  Glenarm 
dropped  a  note — and  the  bow  of  Julius  paused 
shuddering  on  the  strings. 

' '  I  can't  play ! "  she  said.  ' '  I  am  so  agitated ; 
I  am  so  anxious.  How  am  I  to  find  out  whether 
that  wretch  is  really  married  or  not  ?  Who  can 
I  ask  ?  I  can't  go  to  Geoffrey  in  London — the 
trainers  won't  let  me  see  him.  I  can't  appeal  to 
Mr.  Brinkworth  himself — I  am  not  even  ac- 
quainted with  him.  Who  else  is  there?  Do 
think,  and  tell  me!" 

There  was  but  one  chance  of  making  her  re- 
turn to  the  Adagio — the  chance  of  hitting  on  a 
suggestion  which  would  satisfy  and  quiet  her. 
Julius  laid  his  violin  on  the  piano,  and  consider- 
ed the  question  before  him  carefully. 

"There  are  the  witn  esses,  "he  said.  "IfGeof- 
frey's  story  is  to  be  depended  on,  the  landlady 
and  the  waiter  at  the  inn  can  speak  to  the  facts." 

"Low  people!"  objected  Mrs.  Glenarm. 
"  People  I  don't  know.  People  who  might  take 
advantage  of  my  situation,  and  be  insolent  to 
me." 

Julius  considered  once  more ;  and  made  an- 
other suggestion.  With  the  fatal  ingenuity  of 
innocence,  he  hit  on  the  idea  of  referring  Mrs. 
Glenarm  to  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie 
herself! 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


167 


"There  is  our  good  friend  at  Windygates,"  ] 
he  said.     "  Some  whisper  of  the  matter  may  j 
have  reached  Lady  Lundie's  ears.     It  may  be  a 
little  awkward  to  call  on  her  (if  she  has  heard 
any  tiling)  at  the  time  of  a  serious  family  disas- 
ter.    You  are  the  best  judge  of  that,  however. 
All  I  can  do  is  to  throw  out  the  notion.    Windy- 
gates  isn't  very  far  off— and  something  might 
come  of  it.     What  do  you  think  ?" 

[Something  might  come  of  it !  Let  it  be  re- 
membered that  Lady  Lundie  had  been  left  en- 
tirely in  the  dark — that  she  had  written  to  Sir 
Patrick  in  a  tone  which  plainly  showed  that  her 
self-esteem  was  wounded  and  her  suspicion  roused 
— and  that  her  first  intimation  of  the  serious  di- 
lemma in  which  Arnold  Brinkworth  stood  was 
now  likely,  thanks  to  Julius  Delamayn.  to  reach 
her  from  the  lips  of  a  mere  acquaintance.  Let 
this  be  remembered ;  and  then  let  the  estimate  be 
formed  of  what  might  come  of  it — not  at  Windy- 
gates  only,  but  also  at  Ham  Farm ! 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Julius. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  enchanted.  "The  very  per- 
son to  go  to !"  she  said.  "  If  I  am  not  let  in  I 
can  easily  write — and  explain  my  object  as  an 
apology.  Lady  Lundie  is  so  right-minded,  so 
sympathetic.  If  she  sees  no  one  else — I  have 
only  to  confide  my  anxieties  to  her,  and  I  am  j 
sure  she  will  see  me.  You  will  lend  me  a  car- 
riage, won't  you?  I'll  go  to  Windygates  to- 
morrow. " 

Julius  took  his  violin  off  the  piano. 

"Don't  think  me  very  troublesome,"  he  said, 
coaxingly.  "Between  this  and  to-morrow  we 
have  nothing  to  do.  And  it  is  such  music,  if 
you  once  get  into  the  swing  of  it !  Would  you 
mind  trying  again  ?" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  willing  to  do  any  thing  to 
prove  her  gratitude,  after  the  invaluable  hint 
which  she  had  just  received.  At  the  second  trial 
the  fair  pianist's  eye  and  hand  were  in  perfect 
harmony.  The  lovely  melody  which  the  Adagio 
of  Mozart's  Fifteenth  Sonata  has  given  to  violin 
and  piano  flowed  smoothly  at  last — and  Julius 
Delamayn  soared  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  mu- 
sical delight. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Glenarm  and  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn went  together  to  Windygates  House. 


TENTH  SCENE.— THE  BEDROOM. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FIRST. 

LADY  iUNDIE  DOES  HER  DUTY. 

THE  scene  opens  on  a  bedroom — and  discloses, 
in  broad  daylight,  a  lady  in  bed. 

Persons  with  an  irritable  sense  of  propriety, 
whose  self-appointed  duty  it  is  to  be  always  cry- 
ing out,  are  warned  to  pause  before  they  cry  out 
on  this  occasion.  The  lady  now  presented  to 
view  being  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie 
herself,  it  follows,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the 
utmost  demands  of  propriety  are,  by  the  mere 
assertion  of  that  fact,  abundantly  and  indisput- 
ably satisfied.  To  say  that  any  thing  short  of 
direct  moral  advantage  could,  by  any  possibility, 
accrue  to  any  living  creature  by  the  presentation 
of  her  ladyship  in  a  horizontal,  instead  of  a  per- 
pendicular position,  is  to  assert  that  Virtue  is  a 
question  of  posture,  and  that  Respectability 


ceases  to  assert  itself  when  it  ceases  to  appear  in 
morning  or  evening  dress.  Will  any  body  be 
bold  enough  to  say  that  ?  Let  nobody  cry  out, 
then,  on  the  present  occasion. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed. 

Her  ladyship  had  received  Blanche's  written 
announcement  of  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the 
bridal  tour ;  and  had  penned  the  answer  to  Sir 
Patrick — the  receipt  of  which  at  Ham  Farm  has 
been  already  described.  This  done,  Lady  Lun- 
die felt  it  due  to  herself  to  take  a  becoming  posi- 
tion in  her  own  house,  pending  the  possible  ar- 
rival of  Sir  Patrick's  reply.  What  does  a  right- 
minded  woman  do,  when  she  has  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  she  is  cruelly  distrusted  by  the  mem- 
bers of  her  own  family  ?  A  right-minded  wo- 
man feels  it  so  acutely  that  she  falls  ill.  Lady 
Lundie  fell  ill  accordingly. 

The  case  being  a  serious  one,  a  medical  prac- 
titioner of  the  highest  grade  in  the  profession 
was  required  to  treat  it.  A  physician  from  the 
neighboring  town  of  Kirkandrew  was  called  in. 

The  physician  came  in  a  carriage  and  pair, 
with  the  necessary  bald  head,  and  the  indispens- 
able white  cravat.  He  felt  her  ladyship's  pulse, 
and  put  a  few  gentle  questions.  He  turned  his 
back  solemnly,  as  only  a  great  doctor  can,  on  his 
own  positive  internal  conviction  that  his  patient 
had  nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  her.  He 
said,  with  every  appearance  of  believing  in  him- 
self, "  Nerves,  Lady  Lundie.  Repose  in  bed  is 
essentially  necessary.  I  will  write  a  prescrip- 
tion." He  prescribed,  with  perfect  gravity:  Ar- 
omatic Spirits  of  Ammonia — 15  drops.  Spirits 
of  Red  Lavender — 10  drops.  Syrup  of  Orange 
Peel  —  2  drams.  Camphor  Julep  —  1  ounce. 
When  he  had  written,  Misce  fiat  Haustus  (instead 
of  Mix  a  Draught) — when  he  had  added,  Ter  die 
Sumendus  (instead  of  To  be  taken  Three  times 
a  day) — and  when  he  had  certified  to  his  own 
Latin,  by  putting  his  initials  at  the  end,  he  had 
only  to  make  his  bow ;  to  slip  two  guineas  into 
his  pocket ;  and  to  go  his  way,  with  an  approv- 
ing professional  conscience,  in  the  character  of  a 
physician  who  had  done  his  duty. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed.  The  visible  part  of 
her  ladyship  was  perfectly  attired,  with  a  view  to 
the  occasion.  A  fillet  of  superb  white  lace  en- 
circled her  head.  She  wore  an  adorable  invalid 
jacket  of  white  cambric,  trimmed  with  lace  and 
pink  ribbons.  The  rest  was — bed-clothes.  On  a 
table  at  her  side  stood  the  Red  Lavender  Draught 
— in  color  soothing  to  the  eye ;  in  flavor  not  un- 
pleasant to  the  taste.  A  book  of  devotional 
character  was  near  it.  The  domestic  ledgers, 
and  the  kitchen  report  for  the  day,  were  ranged 
modestly  behind  the  devout  book.  (Not  even 
her  ladyship's  nerves,  observe,  were  permitted  to 
interfere  with  her  ladyship's  duty.9  A  fan,  a 
smelling-bottle,  and  a  handkerchief  lay  within 
reach  on  the  counterpane.  The  spacious  room 
!  was  partially  darkened.  One  of  the  lower  win- 
dows was  open,  affording  her  ladyship  the  neces- 
sary cubic  supply  of  air.  The  late  Sir  Thomas 
looked  at  his  widow,  in  efBgy,  from  the  wall  op- 
posite the  end  of  the  bed.  Not  a  chair  was  out 
of  its  place ;  not  a  vestige  of  wearing  apparel 
dared  to  show  itself  outside  the  sacred  limits  of 
the  wardrobe  and  the  drawers.  The  sparkling 
treasures  of  the  toilet-table  glittered  in  the  dim 
distance.  The  jugs  and  basins  were  of  a  rare 


168 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"HER  LAPYSHIP'S  EYES  WEEK  CLOSED." 


and  creamy  white ;  spotless  and  beautiful  to  see. 
Look  where  you  might,  you  saw  a  perfect  room. 
Then  look  at  the  bed — and  you  saw  a  perfect 
woman,  and  completed  the  picture. 

It  was  the  day  after  Anne's  appearance  at 
Swanhaven — toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon. 

Lady  Lundie's  own  maid  opened  the  door 
noiselessly,  and  stole  on  tip-toe  to  the  bedside. 
Her  ladyship's  eyes  were  closed.  Her  ladyship 
suddenly  opened  them.  , 

"  Not  asleep,  Hopkins.  Suffering.  What  is 
it?" 

Hopkins  laid  two  cards  on  the  counterpane. 
"  Mrs.  Delamayn,mylady — and  Mrs.  Glenarm." 
"  They  were  told  I  was  ill,  of  course  ?" 
"Yes,  my  lady.     Mrs.  Glenarm  sent  for  me. 
She  went  into  the  library,  and  wrote  this  note." 
Hopkins  produced  the  note,  neatly  folded  in 
three-cornered  form. 
"Have  they  gone?" 

"  No,  my  lady.  Mrs.  Glenarm  told  me  Yes 
or  No  would  do  for  answer,  if  you  could  only 
have  the  goodness  to  read  this." 

"Thoughtless  of  Mrs.  Glenarm — at  a  time 
when  the  doctor  insists  on  perfect  repose,"  said 
Lady  Lundie.  "  It  doesn't  matter.  One  sacri- 
fice more  or  less  is  of  very  little  consequence. " 

She  fortified  herself  by  an  application  of  the 
smelling-bottle,  and  opened  the  note.  It  ran 
thus : 

"So  grieved,  dear  Lady  Lundie,  to  hear  that 
you  are  a  prisoner  in  your  room !  I  had  taken 
the  opportunity  of  calling  with  Mrs.  Delamayn, 
in  the  hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  ask  you  a 
question.  Will  your  inexhaustible  kindness  for- 
give me  if  I  ask  it  in  writing  ?  Have  you  had 


any  unexpected  news  of  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth 
ately  ?  I  mean,  have  you  heard  any  thing  about 
lim,  which  has  taken  you  very  much  by  surprise  ? 
[  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking  this.  I  will 
:ell  you  what  it  is,  the  moment  you  are  able  to 
see  me.  Until  then,  one  word  of  answer  is  all 
I  expect.  Send  word  down — Yes,  or  No.  A 
thousand  apologies — and  pray  get  better  soon!" 
The  singular  question  contained  in  this  note 
suggested  one  of  two  inferences  to  Lady  Lun- 
die's mind.  Either  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  heard  a 
report  of  the  unexpected  return  of  the  married 
couple  to  England — or  she  was  in  the  far  more 
interesting  and  important  position  of  possessing 
a  clew  to  the  secret  of  what  was  going  on  under 
the  surface  at  Ham  Farm.  The  phrase  used  in 
the  note,  "I  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking 
this, "appeared  to  favor  the  latter  of  the  two  in- 
terpretations. Impossible  as  it  seemed  to  be  that 
Mrs.  Glenarm  could  know  something  about  Ar- 
nold of  which  Lady  Lundie  was  in  absolute  ig- 
norance, her  ladyship's  curiosity  (already  power- 
fully excited  by  Blanche's  mysterious  letter)  was 
only  to  be  quieted  by  obtaining  the  necessary  ex- 
planation forthwith,  at  a  personal  interview. 

"  Hopkins,"  she  said,  "  I  must  see  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm." 

Hopkins  respectfully  held  up  her  hands  in 
horror.  Company  in  the  bedroom  in  the  pres- 
ent state  of  her  ladyship's  health  ! 

"A  matter  of  duty  is  involved  in  this,  Hop- 
kins. Give  me  the  glass." 

Hopkins  produced  an  elegant  little  hand- 
mirror.  Lady  Lundie  carefully  surveyed  her- 
self in  it  down  to  the  margin  of  the  bed-clothes. 
Above  criticism  in  every  respect?  Yes — even 
when  the  critic  was  a  woman. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


169 


"Show  Mrs.  Glenarm  up  here." 

In  a  minute  or  two  mo.e  the  iron-master's 
widow  fluttered  into  the  room — a  little  over- 
dressed as  usual ;  and  a  little  profuse  in  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  for  her  ladyship's  kindness, 
and  of  anxiety  about  her  ladyship's  health. 
Lady  Lundie  endured  it  as  long  as  she  could — 
then  stopped  it  with  a  gesture  of  polite  remon- 
strance, and  came  to  the  point. 

"Now,  my  dear — about  this  question  in  your 
note  ?  Is  it  possible  you  have  heard  already  that 
Arnold  Brinkworth  and  his  wife  have  come  back 
from  Baden?"  Mrs.  Glenarm  opened  her  eyes 
in  astonishment.  Lady  Lundie  put  it  more 
plainly.  "  They  were  to  have  gone  on  to  Switz- 
erland, you  know,  for  their  wedding  tour,  and 
they  suddenly  altered  their  minds,  and  came 
back  to  England  on  Sunday  last." 

"Dear  Lady  Lundie,  it's  not  that !  Have  you 
heard  nothing  about  Mr.  Brinkworth  except  what 
you  have  just  told  me?" 

"Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Glenarm  toyed  hes- 
itatingly with  her  parasol.  Lady  Lundie  leaned 
forward  in  the  bed,  and  looked  at  her  attent- 
ively. 

"What  have  you  heard  about  him?"  she 
asked. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  embarrassed.  "It's  so 
difficult  to  say,"  she  began. 

"I  can  bear  any  thing  but  suspense,"  said 
Lady  Lundie.  "Tell  me  the  worst." 

M*rs.  Glenarm  decided  to  risk  it.  ' '  Have  you 
never  heard,"  she  asked,  "that  Mr.  Brinkworth 
might  possibly  have  committed  himself  with  an- 
other lady  before  he  married  Miss  Lundie  ?" 

Her  ladyship  first  closed  her  eyes  in  horror, 
and  then '  searched  blindly  on  the  counterpane 
for  the  smelling-bottle.  Mrs.  Glenarm  gave  it 
to  her,  and  waited  to  see  how  the  invalid  bore  it 
before  she  said  any  more. 

"There  are  things  one  must  hear,"  remarked 
Lady  Lundie.  "I  see  an  act  of  duty  involved 
in  this.  No  words  can  describe  how  you  aston- 
ish me.  Who  told  you?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  told  me." 

Her  ladyship  applied  for  the  second  time  to  the 
smelling-bottle.  "  Arnold  Brinkworth's  most  in- 
timate friend !"  she  exclaimed.  "  He  ought  to 
know  if  any  body  does.  This  is  dreadful.  Why 
should  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  him,"  answered  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  "  That  is  my  excuse,  dear  Ladv 
Lundie,  for  troubling  you  in  this  matter." 

Lady  Lundie  partially  opened  her  eyes  in  a 
state  of  faint  bewilderment.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand," she  said.  "For  Heaven's  sake  explain 
yourself!" 

"Haven't  you  heard  about  the  anonymous 
letters  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Yes.  Lady  Lundie  had  heard  about  the  let- 
ters. But  only  what  the  public  in  general  had 
heard.  The  name  of  the  lady  in  the  back- 
ground not  mentioned ;  and  Mr."  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn assumed  to  be  as  innocent  as  the  babe  un- 
born. Any  mistake  in  that  assumption  ?  "Give 
me  your  hand,  my  poor  dear,  and  confide  it  all  to 
me  !" 

"He  is  not  quite  innocent,"  said  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. .  "  He  owned  to  a  foolish  flirtation — all  her 
doing,  no  doubt.  Of  course,  I  insisted  on  a  dis- 
tinct explanation.  Had  she  really  any  claim  on 
L 


him?  Not  the  shadow  of  a  claim.  I  felt  that 
I  only  had  his  word  for  that — and  I  told  him 
so.  He  said  he  could  prove  it — he  said  he 
knew  her  to  be  privately  married  already.  Her 
husband  had  disowned  and  deserted  her;  she 
was  at  the  end  of  her  resources ;  she  was  des- 
perate enough  to  attempt  any  thing.  I  thought 
it  all  very  suspicious — until  Geoffrey  mentioned 
the  man's  name.  That  certainly  proved  that  he 
had  cast  oft'  his  wife ;  for  I  myself  knew  that  he 
had  lately  married  another  person."  . 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  started  up  from  her 
pillow — honestly  agitated ;  genuinely  alarmed 
by  this  time. 

"Mr.  Delamayn  told  you  the  man's  name?" 
she  said,  breathlessly. 

"Yes." 

"Do  I  know  it?" 

"Don't  ask  me!" 

Lady  Lundie  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  to  ring  for  help.  Before 
she  could  touch  the  bell,  her  ladyship  had  ral- 
lied again. 

"  Stop !"  she  cried.  "  I  can  confirm  it !  It's 
true,  Mrs.  Glenarm!  it's  true!  Open  the  sil- 
ver box  on  the  toilet-table — you  will  find  the  key 
in  it.  Bring  me  the  top  letter.  Here!  Look 
at  it.  I  got  this  from  Blanche.  Why  have  they 
suddenly  given  up  their  bridal  tour  ?  Why  have 
they  gone  back  to  Sir  Patrick  at  Ham  Farm? 
Why  have  they  put  me  off  with  an  infamous  sub- 
terfuge to  account  for  it  ?  I  felt  sure  something 
dreadful  had  happened.  Now  I  know  what  it 
is !"  She  sank  back  again,  with  closed  eyes,  and 
repeated  the  words,  in  a  fierce  whisper,  to  her- 
self. "  Now  I  know  what  it  is !" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  read  the  letter.  The  reason 
given  for  the  suspiciously-sudden  return  of  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  was  palpably  a  subter- 
fuge— and,  more  remarkable  still,  the  name  of 
Anne  Silvester  was  connected  with  it.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  became  strongly  agitated  on  her  side. 

"This  is  a  confirmation,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Brinkworth  has-  been  found  out — the  woman  is 
married  to  him — Geoffrey  is  free.  Oh,  my  dear 
friend,  wha»  a  load  of  anxiety  you  have  taken, 
off  my  mind !  That  vile  wretch — " 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "  the  woman  who 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  mischief?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  her  yesterday.  She  forced 
herself  in  at  Swanhaven.  She  called  him  Geof- 
frey Delamayn.  She  declared  herself  a  single 
woman.  She  claimed  him  before  my  face  in  the 
most  audacious  manner.  She  shook  my  faith, 
Lady  Lundie — she  shook  my  faith  in  Geoffrey!'' 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  Who  ?"  echoed  Mrs.  Glenarm.  ' '  Don't  you 
even  know  that?  Why  her  name-  is  repeated 
half  a  dozen  times  in  this  letter !" ._. 

Lady  Lundie  uttered  a  scream  that  rang 
through  the  room.  Mrs.  Glenarm  started  to 
her  feet.  The  maid  appeared  at  the  door  in 
terror.  Her  ladyship  motioned  to  the  woman 
to  withdraw  again  instantly,  and  then  pointed  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm 's  chair. 

"Sit  down, "  she  said.  ' '  Let  me  have  a  minute 
or  two  of  quiet.  I  want  nothing  more. " 

The  silence  in  the  room  was  unbroken  until 
Lady  Lundie  spoke  again.  She  asked  for 
Blanche's  letter.  After  reading  it  carefully,  she 
laid  it  aside,  and  fell  for  a  while  into  deep  thought. 


170 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"I  have  done  Blanche  an  injustice  !"  she  ex- 
claimed. ' '  My  poor  Blanche ! " 

"  You  think  she  knows  nothing  about  it?" 

"  I  am  certain  of  if !  You  forget,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm,  that  this  horrible  discovery  casts  a  doubt  on 
my  step-daughter's  marriage.  Do  you  think,  if 
she  knew  the  truth,  she  would  write  of  a  wretch 
who  has  mortally  injured  her  as  she  writes  here? 
They  have  put  her  off  with  the  excuse  that  she 
innocently  sends  to  me.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as  I 
see- you !  Mr.  Brinkworth  and  Sir  Patrick  are 
in  league  to  keep  us  both  in  the  dark.  Dear 
child!  I  owe  her  an  atonement.  If  nobody 
else  opens  her  eyes,  I  will  do  it.  Sir  Patrick 
shall  find  that  Blanche  has  a  friend  in  Me !" 

A  smile — the  dangerous  smile  of  an  inveter- 
ately  vindictive  woman  thoroughly  roused — 
showed  itself  with  a  furtive  suddenness  on  her 
face.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  a  little  startled.  Lady 
Lundie  below  the  surface — as  distinguished  from 
Lady  Lundie  on  the  surface — was  not  a  pleasant 
•object  to  contemplate. 

"Pray  try  to  compose  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  "Dear  Lady  Lundie,  you  frighten 
me!" 

The  bland  surface  of  her  ladyship  appeared 
smoothly  once  more ;  drawn  back,  as  it  were, 
over  the  hidden  inner  self,  which  it  had  left  for 
the  moment  exposed  to  view. 

"Forgive  me  for  feeling  it!"  she  said,  with 
the  patient  sweetness  which  so  eminently  distin- 
guished her  in  times  of  trial.  "It  falls  a  little 
heavily  on  a  poor  sick  woman — innocent  of  all 
suspicion,  and  insulted  by  the  most  heartless  neg- 
lect. Don't  let  me  distress  you.  I  shall  rally, 
my  dear ;  I  shall  rally !  In  this  dreadful  calam- 
ity— this  abyss  of  crime  and  misery  and  deceit — 
I  have  no  one  to  depend  on  but  myself.  For 
Blanche's  sake,  the  whole  thing  must  be  cleared 
up — probed,  my  dear,  probed  to  the  depths. 
Blanche  must  take  a  position  that  is  worthy  of 
her.  Blanche  must  insist  on  her  rights,  under 
My  protection.  Never  mind  what  I  suffer,  or 
what  I  sacrifice.  There  is  a  work  of  justice  for 
poor  weak  Me  to  do.  It  shall  be  done!"  said 
her  ladyship,  fanning  herself  with  «an  aspect  of 
illimitable  resolution.  "It  shall  be  done!" 

"  But,  Lady  Lundie,  what  can  you  do  ?  They 
are  all  away  in  the  south.  And  as  for  that  abom- 
inable woman — " 

Lady  Lundie  touched  Mrs.  Glenarm  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan. 

"  I  have  my  surprise  in  store,  dear  friend,  as 
well  as  you.  That  abominable  woman  was  em- 
ployed as  Blanche's  governess  in  this  house. 
Wait!  that  is  not  all.  She  left  us  suddenly — 
ran  away — on  the  pretense  of  being  privately 
married.  I  kno\v  where  she  went.  I  can  trace 
what  she  did.  I  can  find  out  who  was  with  her. 
I  can  follow  Mr.  Brinkworth's  proceedings,  be- 
hind Mr.  Brinkworth's  back.  I  can  search  out 
the  truth,  without  depending  on  people  compro- 
mised in  this  black  business,  whose  interest  it  is 
to  deceive  me.  And  I  will  do  it  to-day !"  She 
closed  the  fan  with  a  sharp  snap  of  triumph,  and 
settled  herself  on  the  pillow  in  placid  enjoyment 
of  her  dear  friend's  surprise. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  confidentially  closer  to  the 
bedside.  ' '  How  can  you  manage  it  ?"  she  asked, 
eagerly.  "  Don't  think  me  curious.  I  have  my 
interest,  too,  in  getting  at  the  truth.  Don't  leave 
me  out  of  it,  pray!" 


'  Can  you  come  back  to-morrow,  at  this  time?" 

'Yes!  yes!" 

'Come,  then — and  you  shall  know." 

'  Can  I  be  of  any  use  ?" 

'  Not  at  present. " 

'  Can  my  uncle  be  of  any  use  ?" 
'  Do  you  know  where  to  communicate  with 
Captain  Newenden?" 

"Yes  —  he  is  staying  with  some  friends  in 
Sussex." 

"We  may  possibly  want  his  assistance.  I 
can't  tell  yet.  Don't  keep  Mrs.  Delamayn  wait- 
ing any  longer,  my  dear.  I  shall  expect  you  to- 
morrow. " 

They  exchanged  an  affectionate  embrace. 
Lady  Lundie  was  left  alone. 

Her  ladyship  resigned  herself  to  meditation, 
with  frowning  brow  and  close-shut  lips,  bhe 
looked  her  full  age,  and  a  year  or  two  more,  as 
she  lay  thinking,  with  her  head  on  her  hand,  and 
her  elbow  on  the  pillow.  After  committing  her- 
self to  the  physician  (and  to  the  red  lavender 
draught),  the  commonest  regard  for  consistency 
made  it  necessary  that  she  should  keep  her  bed 
for  that  day.  And  yet  it  was  essential  that  the 
proposed  inquiries  should  be  instantly  set  on 
foot.  On  the  one  hand,  the  problem  was  not 
an  easy  one  to  solve ;  on  the  other,  her  ladyship 
was  not  an  easy  one  to  beat.  How  to  send  for 
the  landlady  at  Craig  Fernie,  without  exciting 
any  special  suspicion  or  remark — was  the  ques- 
tion before  her.  In  less  than  five  minutes  she 
had  looked  back  into  her  memory  of  current 
events  at  Windygates — and  had  solved  it. 

Her  first  proceeding  was  to  ring  the  bell  for 
her  maid. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  frightened  you,  Hopkins.  The 
state  of  my  nerves.  Mrs.  G'lenarm  was  a  little 
sudden  with  some  news  that  surprised  me.  I 
am  better  now — and  able  to  attend  to  the  house- 
hold matters.  There  is  a  mistake  in  the  butch- 
er's account.  Send  the  cook  here. " 

She  took  up  the  domestic  ledger  and  the  kitch- 
en report ;  corrected  the  butcher ;  cautioned  the 
cook ;  and  disposed  of  all  arrears  of  domestic 
business  before  Hopkins  was  summoned  again. 
Having,  in  this  way,  dextrously  prevented  the 
woman  from  connecting  any  thing  that  her  mis- 
tress said  or  did,  after  Mrs.  Glenarm 's  departure, 
with  any  thing  that  might  have  passed  during 
Mrs.  Glenarm 's  visit,  Lady  Lundie  felt  herself 
at  liberty  to  pave  the  way  for  the  investigation 
on  which  she  was  determined  to  enter  before  she 
slept  that  night. 

"So  much  for  the  indoor  arrangements, "she 
said.  "You  must  be  my  prime  minister,  Hop- 
kins, while  I  lie  helpless  here.  Is  there  any 
thing  wanted  by  the  people  out  of  doors?  The 
coachman  ?  The  gardener  ?" 

"  I  have  just  seen  the  gardener,  my  lady.  He 
came  with  last  week's  accounts.  I  told  him  he 
couldn't  see  your  ladyship  to-day." 

"  Quite  right.     Had  he  any  report  to  make  ?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Surely,  there  was  something  I  wanted  to  say 
to  him — or  to  somebody  else?  My  memoran- 
dum-book, Hopkins.  In  the  basket,  on  that 
chair.  Why  wasn't  the  basket  placed  by  my 
bedside  ?" 

Hopkins  brought  the  memorandum  -  book. 
Lady  Lnndie  consulted  it  (without  the  slightest 
necessity),  with  the  same  masterly  gravity  ex- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


171 


hibited  by  the  doctor  when  he  wrote  her  pre- 
scription (without  the  slightest  necessity  also). 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  recovering  the  lost  re- 
membrance. "  Not  the  gardener,  but  the  gar- 
dener's wife.  A  memorandum  to  sj>eak  to  her 
about  Mrs.  Inchbare.  Observe,  Hopkins,  the  as- 
sociation of  ideas.  Mrs.  Inchbare  is  associated 
with  the  poultry;  the  poultry  are  associated  with 
the  gardener's  wife ;  the  gardener's  wife  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  gardener— and  so  the  gardener 
gets  into  my  head.  Do  you  see  it  ?  I  am  always 
trying  to  improve  your  mind.  You  do  see  it? 
Very  well.  Now  about  Mrs.  Inchbare  ?  Has 
she  been  here  again  ?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Hopkins,  that  I  was 
right  in  declining  to  consider  the  message  Mrs. 
Inchbare  sent  to  me  about  the  poultry.  Why 
shouldn't  she  otter  to  take  any  fowls  that  I  can 
spare  off  my  hands?  She  is  a  respectable  wo- 
man ;  and  it  is  important  to  me  to  live  on  good 
terms  with  all  my  neighbors,  great  and  small. 
Has  she  got  a  poultry-yard  of  her  own  at  Craig 
Fernie?" 

' '  Yes,  my  ladv.  And  beautifully  kept,  I  am 
told." 

"I  really  don't  see — on  reflection,  Hopkins — 
why  I  should  hesitate  to  deal  with  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare.  (I  don't  think  it  beneath  me  to  sell  the 
game  killed  on  my  estate  to  the  poulterer.) 
What  was  it  she  wanted  to  buy  ?  Some  of  my 
black  Spanish  fowls  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  Your  ladyship's  black  Span- 
iards are  famous  all  round  the  neighborhood. 
Nobody  has  got  the  breed.  And  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare — '' 

"Wants  to  share  the  distinction  of  having  the 
breed  with  me,"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "I  won't 
appear  ungracious.  I  will  see  her  myself,  as 
soon  as  I  am  a  little  better,  and  tell  her  that  I 
have  changed  my  mind.  Send  one  of  the  men 
to  Craig  Fernie  with  a  message.  I  can't  keep  a 
trifling  matter  of  this  s»rt  in  my  memory — send 
him  at  once,  or  I  may  forget  it.  He  is  to  say  I 
am  willing  to  see  Mrs.  Inchbare,  about  the  fowls, 
the  first  time  she  finds  it  convenient  to  come  this 
way. " 

"I  am  afraid,  my  lady — -Mrs.  Inchbare's  heart 
is  so  set  on  the  black  Spaniards — she  will  find  it 
convenient  to  come  this  way  at  once  as  fast  as 
her  feet  can  carry  her. " 

"In  that  case,  you  must  take  her  to  the  gar- 
dener's wife.  Say  she  is  to  have  some  eggs — on 
condition,  of  course,  of  paying  the  price  for 
them.  If  she  does  come,  mind  I  hear  of  it. " 

Hopkins  withdrew.  Hopkins's  mistress  re- 
clined on  her  comfortable  pillows,  and  fanned 
herself  gently.  The  vindictive  smile  reappeared 
on  her  face.  "  I  fancy  I  shall  be  well  enough 
to  see  Mrs.  Inchbare,"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"And  it  is  just  possible  that  the  conversation 
may  get  beyond  the  relative  merits  of  her  poult- 
ry-yard and  mine. " 

A  lapse  of  little  more  than  two  hours  proved 
Hopkins's  estimate  of  the  latent  enthusiasm  in 
Mrs.  Inchbare's  character  to  have  been  correct- 
ly formed.  The  eager  landlady  appeared  at 
Windygates  on  the  heels  of  the  returning  serv- 
ant. Among  the  long  list  of  human  weakness- 
es, a  passion  for  poultry  seems  to  have  its  prac- 
tical advantages  (in  the  shape  of  eggs)  as  com- 


pared with  the  more  occult  frenzies  for  collecting 
snuff-boxes  and  fiddles,  and  amassing  autographs 
and  old  postage-stamps.  When  the  mistress  of 
Craig  Fernie  was  duly  announced  to  the  mistress 
of  Windygates,  Lady  Lundie  developed  a  sense 
of  humor  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Her  lady- 
ship was  feebly  merry  (the  result,  no  doubt,  of 
the  exhilarating  properties  of  the  red  lavender 
draught)  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Inchbare  and  the 
Spanish  fowls. 

"Most  ridiculous,  Hopkins!  This  poor  wo- 
man must  be  suffering  from  a  determination  of 
poultry  to  the  brain.  Ill  as  I  am,  I  should  have 
thought  that  nothing  could  amuse  me.  But, 
really,  this  good  creature  starting  up,  and  rush- 
ing here,  as  you  say,  as  fast  as  her  feet  can  car- 
ry her — it's  impossible  to  resist  it!  I  positively 
think  I  must  see  Mrs.  Inchbare.  With  my  act- 
ive habits,  this  imprisonment  to  my  room  is 
dreadful.  I  can  neither  sleep  nor  read.  Any 
thing,  Hopkins,  to  divert  my  mind  from  myself. 
It's  easy  to  get  rid  of  her  if  she  is  too  much  for 
me.  Send  her  up. " 

Mrs.  Inchbare  made  her  appearance,  courtesy- 
ing  deferentially ;  amazed  at  the  condescension 
which  admitted  her  within  the  hallowed  pre- 
cincts of  Lady  Lundie's  room. 

"  Take  a  chair,"  said  her  ladyship,  graciously. 
"  I  am  suffering  from  illness,  as  you  perceive." 

"My  certie!  sick  or  well,  yer  leddyship's  a 
braw  sight  to  see!"  returned  Mrs.  Inchbare, 
profoundly  impressed  by  the  elegant  costume 
which  illness  assumes  when  illness  appears  in 
the  regions  of  high  life. 

"  I  am  far  from  being  in  a  fit  state  to  receive 
any  body,"  proceeded  Lady  Lundie.  "But  I 
had  a  motive  for  wishing  to  speak  to  you  when 
you  next  came  to  my  house.  I  failed  to  treat  a 
proposal  you  made  to  me,  a  short  time  since,  in  a 
friendly  and  neighborly  way.  I  beg  you  to  un- 
derstand that  I  regret  having  forgotten  the  con- 
sideration due  from  a  person  in  my  position  to  a 
person  in  yours.  I  am  obliged  to  say  this  under 
very  unusual  circumstances,"  added  her  lady- 
ship, with  a  glance  round  her  magnificent  bed- 
room, "through  your  unexpected  promptitude  in 
favoring  me  with  a  call.  You  have  lost  no  time, 
Mrs.  Inchbare,  in  profiting  by  the  message  which 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  sending  to  you. " 

"  Eh,  my  leddy,  I  wasna'  that  sure  (yer  leddy- 
ship  having  ance  changed  yer  mind)  but  that  ye 
might  e'en  change  again  if  I  failed  to  strike,  as 
they  say,  while  the  iron's  het.  I  crave  yer  par- 
don, I'm  sure,  if  I  ha'  been  ower  hasty.  The 
pride  o'  my  hairt's  in  my  powltry — and  the 
'  black  Spaniards'  (as  they  ca'  them)  are  a  sair 
temptation  to  me  to  break  the  tenth  command- 
ment, sae  lang  as  they're  a'  in  yer  leddyship's 
possession,  and  nane  o'  them  in  mine." 

"  I  am  shocked  to  hear  that  I  have  been  the 
innocent  cause  of  your  falling  into  temptation, 
Mrs.  Inchbare!  Make  your  proposal — and  I 
shall  be  happy  to  meet  it,  if  I  can." 

"I  must  e'en  be  content  wi'  what  yer  leddy- 
ship  will  condescend  on.  A  haitch  o'  eggs  if  I 
can  come  by  naething  else." 

"  There  is  something  else  you  would  prefer  to 
a  hatch  of  eggs  ?" 

"  I  wad  prefer,"  said  Mrs.  Inchbare,  modestly, 
"a  cock  and  twa  pullets." 

"  Open  the  case  on  the  table  behind  you,"  said 
Lady  Lundie,  "  and  you  will  find  some  writing- 


172 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


paper  inside.  Give  me  a  sheet  of  it — and  the 
pencil  out  of  the  tray." 

Eagerly  watched  by  Mrs.  Inchbare,  she  wrote 
an  order  to  the  poultry-woman,  and  held  it  out 
with  a  gracious  smile. 

"Take  that  to  the  gardener's  wife.  If  you 
agree  with  her  about  the  price,  you  can  have  the 
cock  and  the  two  pullets." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  opened  her  lips — no  doubt  to 
express  the  utmost  extremity  of  human  grati- 
tude. Before  she  had  said  three  words,  Lady 
Lundie's  impatience  to  reach  the  end  which  she 
had  kept  in  view  from  the  time  when  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  had  left  the  house  burst  the  bounds  which 
had  successfully  restrained  it  thus  far.  Stopping 
the  landlady  without  ceremony,  she  fairly  forced 
the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  Anne  Silves- 
ter's proceedings  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  at  the  hotel,  Mrs. 
Inchbare  ?  Plenty  of  tourists,  I  suppose,  at  this 
time  of  year  ?" 

"  Full,  my  leddy  (praise  Providence),  frae  the 
basement  to  the  ceiling. " 

"  You  had  a  visitor,  I  think,  some  time  since 
of  whom  I  know  something  ?  A  person — "  She 
paused,  and  put  a  strong  constraint  on  herself. 
There  was  no  alternative  but  to  yield  to  the  hard 
necessity  of  making  her  inquiry  intelligible.  "  A 
lady,"  she  added,  "who  came  to  you  about  the 
middle  of  last  month." 

"Could  yer  leddyship  condescend  on  her 
name  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  put  a  still  stronger  constraint  on 
herself.  "  Silvester,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"  Presairve  us  a' !"  cried  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "  It 
will  never  be  the  same  that  cam'  driftin'  in  by 
hersel' — wi'  a  bit  bag  in  her  hand,  and  a  hus- 
band left  daidling  an  hour  or  mair  on  the  road 
behind  her  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  the  same." 

"Will  she  be  a  freend  o'  yer  leddyship's ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Inchbare,  feeling  her  ground  cau- 
tiously. , 

"  Certainly  not !"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "  I  felt 
a  passing  curiosity  about  her — nothing  more. " 

Mrs.  Inchbare  looked  relieved.  "To  tell  ye 
truth,  my  leddy,  there  was  nae  love  lost  between 
us.  She  had  a  maisterfu'  temper  o'  her  ain — 
and  I  was  weel  pleased  when  I'd  seen  the  last 
of  her. " 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that,  Mrs.  Inchbare — 
I  know  something  of  her  temper  myself.  Did  I 
understand  you  to  say  that  she  came  to  yonr 
hotel  alone,  and  that  her  husband  joined  her 
shortly  afterward  ?" 

"  E'en  sae,  yer  leddyship.  I  was  no'  free  to 
gi'  her  house-room  in  the  bottle  till  her  husband 
daidled  in  at  her  heels  and  answered  for  her." 

"  I  fancy  I  must  have  seen  her  husband,"  said 
Lady  Lundie.  "  What  sort  of  a  man  was  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  replied  in  much  the  same  words 
which  she  had  used  in  answering  the  similar  ques- 
tion put  by  Sir  Patrick. 

"Eh!  he  was  ower  young  for  the  like  o'  her. 
A  pratty  man,  my  leddy — betwixt  tall  and  short ; 
wi'  bonny  brown  eyes  and  cheeks,  and  fine  coal- 
blaik  hair.  A  nice  douce-spoken  lad.  I  hae 
naething  to  say  against  him — except  that  he 
cam'  late  one  day,  and  took  leg-bail  betimes  the 
next  morning,  and  left  madam  behind,  a  load  on 
my  hands." 

The  answer  produced  precisely  the  same  effect 


on  Lady  Lundie  which  it  had  produced  on  Fir 
Patrick.  She,  also,  felt  that  it  was  too  vaguely 
like  too  many  young  men  of  no  uncommon  hu- 
mor and  complexion  to  be  relied  on.  But  her 
ladyship  possessed  one  immense  advantage  over 
her  brother-in-law  in  attempting  to  arrive  at  the 
truth.  She  suspected  Arnold — and  it  was  pos- 
sible, in  her  case,  to  assist  Mrs.  Inchbare's  mem- 
ory by  hints  contributed  from  her  own  superior 
resources  of  experience  and  observation. 

"  Had  he  any  thing  about  him  of  the  look  and 
way  of  a  sailor?"  she  asked.  "  And  did  you  no- 
tice, when  you  spoke  to  him,  that  he  had  a  habit 
of  playing  with  a  locket  on  his  watch-chain  ?" 

"There  he  is,  het  aff  to  a  T!"  cried  Mrs. 
Inchbare.  "  Yer  leddyship's  weel  acquented  wi' 
him — there's  nae  doot  o'  that." 

"  I  thought  I  had  seen  him,"  said  Lady  Lundie. 
"  A  modest,  well-behaved  young  man,  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare,  as  you  say.  Don't  let  me  keep  you  any 
longer  from  the  poultry-yard.  I  am  transgress"- 
ing  the  doctor's  orders  in  seeing  any  body.  We 
quite  understand  each  other  now,  don't  we? 
Very  glad  to  have  seen  you.  Good-evening." 

So  she  dismissed  Mrs.  Inchbare,  when  Mrs. 
Inchbare  had  served  her  purpose. 

Most  women,  in  her  position,  would  have  been 
content  with  the  information  which  she  had  now 
obtained.  But  Lady  Lundie— having  a  man  like 
Sir  Patrick  to  deal  with — determined  to  be  doub- 
ly sure  of  her  facts  before  she  ventured  on  inter- 
fering at  Ham  Farm.  She  had  learned  from 
Mrs.  Inchbare  that  the  so-called  husband  of 
Anne  Silvester  had  joined  her  at  Craig  Fernie 
on  the  day  when  she  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  had 
left  her  again  the  next  morning.  Anne  had 
made  her  escape  from  Windygates  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  lawn-party — that  is  to  say,  on  the 
fourteenth  of  August.  On  the  same  day  Arnold 
Brinkworth  had  taken  his  departure  for  the  pur- 
pose of  visiting  the  Scotch  property  left  to  him 
by  his  aunt.  If  Mrs.  Inchbare  was  to  be  de- 
pended on,  he  must  haw  gone  to  Craig  Fernie 
instead  of  going  to  his  appointed  destination — 
and  must,  therefore,  have  arrived  to  visit  his 
house  and  lands  one  day  later  than  the  day 
which  he  had  originally  set  apart  for  that  pur- 
pose. If  this  fact  could  be  proved,  on  the  testi- 
mony of  a  disinterested  witness,  the  case  against 
Arnold  would  be  strengthened  tenfold ;  and  Lady 
Lundie  might  act  on  her  discovery  with  some- 
thing like  a  certainty  that  her  information  was 
to  be  relied  on. 

After  a  little  consideration  she  decided  on 
sending  a  messenger  with  a  note  of  inquiry  ad- 
dressed to  Arnold's  steward.  The  apology  she 
invented  to  excuse  and  account  for  the  strange- 
ness of  the  proposed  question,  referred  it  to  a 
little  family  discussion  as  to  the  exact  date  of 
Arnold's  arrival  at  his  estate,  and  to  a  friendly 
wager  in  which  the  difference  of  opinion  had 
ended.  If  the  steward  could  state  whether  his 
employer  had  arrived  on  the  fourteenth  or  on  the 
fifteenth  of  August,  that  was  all  that  would  be 
wanted  to  decide  the  question  in  dispute. 

Having  written  in  those  terms,  Lady  Lundie 
gave  the  necessary  directions  for  having  the  note 
delivered  at  the  earliest  possible  hour  on  the  next 
morning ;  the  messenger  being  ordered  to  make 
his  way  back  to  Windygates  by  the  first  return 
train  on  the  same  day. 

This  arranged,  her  ladyship  was  free  to  re- 


fresh  herself  with  another  dose  of  the  red  laven- 
der draught,  and  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just, 
who  close  their  eyes  with  the  composing  convic- 
tion that  they  have  done  their  duty. 

The  events  of  the  next  day  at  Windygates 
succeeded  each  other  in  due  course,  as  follows : 

The  post  arrived,  and  brought  no  reply  from 
Sir  Patrick.  Lady  Lundie  entered  that  incident 
on  her  mental  register  of  debts  owed  by  her 
brother-in-law — to  be  paid,  with  interest,  when 
the  day  of  reckoning  came. 

Next  in  order  occurred  the  return  of  the  mes- 
senger with  the  steward's  answer. 

He  had  referred  to  his  Diary ;  and  he  had 
discovered  that  Mr.  Brinkworth  had  written  be- 
forehand to  announce  his  arrival  at  his  estate  for 
the  fourteenth  of  August — but  that  he  had  not 
actually  appeared  until  the  fifteenth.  The  one 
discovery  needed  to  substantiate  Mrs.  Inchbare's 
evidence  being  now  in  Lady  Lundie's  possession, 
she  decided  to  allow  another  day  to  pass — on  the 
chance  that  Sir  Patrick  might  alter  his  mind, 
and  write  to  her.  If  no  letter  arrived,  and  if 
nothing  more  was  received  from  Blanche,  she 
resolved  to  leave  Windygates  by  the  next  morn- 
ing's train,  and  to  try  the  bold  experiment  of 
personal  interference  at  Ham  Farm. 

The  third  in  the  succession  of  events  was  the 
appearance  of  the  doctor  to  pay  his  professional 
visit. 

A  severe  shock  awaited  him.  He  found  his 
patient  cured  by  the  draught !  It  was  contrary 
to  all  rule  and  precedent ;  it  savored  of  quack- 
ery— the  red  lavender  had  no  business  to  do 
what  the  red  lavender  had  done — but  there  she 
was,  nevertheless,  up  and  dressed,  and  contem- 
plating a  journey  to  London  on  the  next  day 
but  one.  "An  act  of  duty,  doctor,  is  involved 
in  this — whatever  the  sacrifice,  I  must  go!"  No 
other  explanation  could  be  obtained.  The  pa- 
tient was  plainly  determined — nothing  remained 
for  the  physician  but  to  retreat  with  unimpaired 
dignity,  and  a  paid  fee.  He  did  it.  "  Our  art," 
he  explained  to  Lady  Lundie  in  confidence,  "is 
nothing,  after  all,  but  a  choice  between  alterna- 
tives. For  instance.  I  see  you — not  cured,  as 
you  think — but  sustained  by  abnormal  excite- 
ment. I  have  to  ask  which  is  the  least  of  the 
two  evils — to  risk  letting  you  travel,  or  to  irri- 
tate you  by  keeping  you  at  home.  With  your 
constitution,  we  must  risk  the  journey.  Be  care- 
ful to  keep  the  window  of  the  carriage  up  on  the 
side  on  which  the  wind  blows.  Let  the  extrem- 
ities be  moderately  warm,  and  the  mind  easy — 
and  pray  don't  omit  to  provide  yourself  with  a 
second  bottle  of  the  Mixture  before  you  start." 
He  made  his  bow,  as  before — he  slipped  two  guin- 
eas into  his  pocket,  as  before — and  he  went  his 
way,  as  before,  with  an  approving  conscience,  in 
the  character  of  a  physician  who  had  done  his 
duty.  (What  an  enviable  profession  is  Medicine ! 
And  why  don't  we  all  belong  to  it?) 

The  last  of  the  events  was  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm. 

"  Well  ?"  she  began,  eagerly,  "  what  news  ?" 

The  narrative  of  her  ladyship's  discoveries — 
recited  at  full  length  ;  and  the  announcement  of 
her  ladyship's  resolution — declared  in  the  most 
uncompromising  terms — raised  Mrs.  Glenarm 's 
excitement  to  the  highest  pitch. 

"You  go  to  town  on  Saturday?'1  she  said. 


173 

"I  will  go  with  yon.  Ever  since  trat  woman 
declared  she  should  be  in  London  before  me,  I 
have  been  dying  to  hasten  my  journey — and  it  is 
such  an  opportunity  to  go  with  you !  I  can  eas- 
ily manage  it.  My  uncle  and  I  were  to  have 
met  in  London,  early  next  week,  for  the  foot- 
race. I  have  only  to  write  and  tell  him  of  my 
change  of  plans. — By-the-"by,  talking  of  my  un- 
cle, I  have  heard,  since  1  saw  you,  from  the  law- 
yers at  Perth. " 

"More  anonymous  letters?" 

"One  more  —  received  by  the  lawyers  this 
time.  My  unknown  correspondent  has  written 
to  them  to  withdraw  his  proposal,  and  to  an- 
nounce that  he  has  left  Perth.  The  lawyers  rec- 
ommended me  to  stop  my  uncle  from  spending 
money  uselessly  in  employing  the  London  police. 
I  have  forwarded  their  letter  to  the  captain; 
and  he  will  probably  be  in  town  to  see  his  solic- 
itors as  soon  as  I  get  there  with  you.  So  much 
for  what  /  have  done  in  this  matter.  Dear  Lady 
Lundie — when  we  are  at  our  journey's  end,  what 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"My  course  is  plain, "answered  her  ladyship, 
calmly.  "Sir  Patrick  will  hear  from  me,  on 
Sunday  morning  next,  at  Ham  Farm." 

"Telling  him  what  you  have  found  out?" 

"  Certainly  not !  Telling  him  that  I  find  my- 
self called  to  London  by  business,  and  that  I  pro- 
pose paying  him  a  short  visit  on  Monday  next." 

"  Of  course,  he  must  receive  you  ?" 

"  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  Even  his 
hatred  of  his  brother's  widow  can  hardly  go  to 
the  length — after  leaving  my  letter  unanswered — 
of  closing  his  doors  against  me  next." 

"  How  will  you  manage  it  when  you  get 
there  ?" 

"  When  I  get  there,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  breath- 
ing an  atmosphere  of  treachery  and  deceit ;  and', 
for  my  poor  child's  sake  (abhorrent  as  all  dissim- 
ulation is  to  me),  I  must  be  careful  what  I  do. 
Not  a  word  will  escape  my  lips  until  I  have  first 
seen  Blanche  in  private.  However  painful  it 
may  be,  I  shall  not  shrink  from  my  duty,  if  my 
duty  compels  me  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  truth. 
Sir  Patrick  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  will  have  some- 
body else  besides  an  inexperienced  young  creat- 
ure to  deal  with  on  Monday  next.  I  shall  be 
there." 

With  that  formidable  announcement,  Lady 
Lundie  closed  the  conversation ;  and  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm rose  to  take  her  leave. 

"We  meet  at  the  Junction,  dear  Lady  Lun- 
die?" 

"  At  the  Junction,  on  Saturday." 


ELEVENTH  SCENE.— SIR  PATRICK'S  HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SECOND. 

THE   SMOKING-ROOM   WINDOW. 

"I  CAN'T  believe  it'  I  won't  believe  it! 
You're  trying  to  part  me  from  my  husband — 
you're  trying  to  set  me  against  my  dearest  friend. 
It's  infamous.  It's,  horrible.  What  have  I  done 
to  you?  Oh,  my  head!  my  head!  Are  you 
trying  to  drive  me  mad  ?" 

"Pale  and  wild ;  her  hands  twisted  in  her  hair ; 
her  feet  hurrying  her  aimlessly  to  and  fro  in  the 
room  —  so  Blanche  answered  her  step-mother, 
when  the  object  of  Lady  Lundie's  pilgrimage  had 


174 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


been  accomplished,  and  the  cruel  truth  had  been 
plainly  told. 

Her  ladyship  sat,  superbly  composed,  looking 
out  through  the  window  at  the  placid  landscape 
of  woods  and  fields  which  surrounded  Ham 
Farm. 

"I  was  prepared  for  this  outbreak, "she  said, 
sadly.  "These  wild  words  relieve  your  over- 
burdened heart,  my  poor  child.  I  can  wait, 
Blanche — I  can  wait!" 

Blanche  stopped,  and  confronted  Lady  Lundie. 

"  You  and  I  never  liked  each  other,"  she  said. 
"  I  wrote  you  a  pert  letter  from  this  place.  I 
have  always  taken  Anne's  part  against  you.  I 
have  shown  you  plainly — rudely,  I  dare  say — 
that  I  was  glad  to  be  married  and  get  away  from 
you.  This  is  not  your  revenge,  is  it  ?" 

'.'Oh,  Blanche,  Blanche,  what  thoughts  to 
think !  what  words  to  say !  I  can  only  pray  for 
you." 

"  I  am  mad,  Lady  Lundie.  You  bear  with 
mad  people.  Bear  with  me.  I  have  been  hard- 
ly more  than  a  fortnight  married.  I  love  him — 
I  love  her — with  all  my  heart.  Remember  what 
you  have  told  me  about  them.  Remember !  re- 
member! remember!" 

She  reiterated  the  words  with  a  low  cry  of 
pain.  Her  hands  went  up  to  her  head  again ; 
and  she  returned  restlessly  to  pacing  this  way 
and  that  in  the  room. 

Lady  Lundie  tried  the  effect  of  a  gentle  re- 
monstrance. "For  your  own  sake,"  she  said, 
"don't  persist  in  estranging  yourself  from  me. 
In  this  dreadful  trial,  I  am  the  only  friend  you 
have. " 

Blanche  came  back  to  her  step-mother's  chair ; 
and  looked  at  her  steadily,  in  silence.  Lady 
Lundie  submitted  to  inspection — and  bore  it  per- 
fectly. 

"  Look  into  my  heart,"  she  said.  "  Blanche ! 
it  bleeds  for  you ! " 

Blanche  heard,  without  heeding.  Her  mind 
was  painfully  intent  on  its  own  thoughts.  "  You 
are  a  religious  woman,"  she  said,  abruptly. 
"  Will  you  swear  on  your  Bible,  that  what  you 
told  me  is  true?" 

"  My  Bible !"  repeated  Lady  Lundie  with  sor- 
rowful emphasis.  "  Oh,  my  child !  have  you  no 
part  in  that  precious  inheritance  ?  Is  it  not  your 
Bible,  too  ?" 

A  momentary  triumph  showed  itself  in 
Blanche's  face.  "You  daren't  swear  it!"  she 
said.  "  That's  enough  for  me !" 

She  turned  away  scornfully.  Lady  Lundie 
caught  her  by  the  hand,  and  drew  her  sharply 
back.  The  suffering  saint  disappeared,  and  the 
woman  who  was  no  longer  to  be  trifled  with 
took  her  place. 

"There  must  be  an  end  to  this, "she  said. 
"  You  don't  believe  what  I  have  told  you.  Have 
you  courage  enough  to  put  it  to  the  test  ?" 

Blanche  started,  and  released  her  hand.  She 
trembled  a  little.  There  was  a  horrible  certainty 
of  conviction  expressed  in  Lady  Lundie's  sudden 
change  of  manner. 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"You  shall  see.  Tell  me  the  truth,  on  your 
side,  first.  Where  is  Sir  Patrick  ?  Is  he  really 
out,  as  his  servant  told  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  out  with  the  farm  bailiff.  You 
have  taken  us  all  by  surprise.  You  wrote  that 
we  were  to  expect  you  by  the  next  train." 


"When  does  the  next  train  arrive?  It  is 
eleven  o'clock  now." 

'  Between  one  and  two. " 
'  Sir  Patrick  will  not  be  back  till  then  ?" 
'Not  till  then." 
'Where  is  Mr.  Brinkworth?" 
'  My  husband  ?" 

'  Your  husband — if  you  like.    Is  he  out,  t6o  ?" 
'  He  is  in  the  smoking-room." 
'Do  you  mean  the  long  room,  built  out  from 
the  back  of  the  house  ?" 
'Yes." 
'  Come  down  stairs  at  once  with  me." 

Blanche  advanced  a  step — and  drew  back. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  she  asked,  inspired 
by  a  sudden  distrust. 

Lady  Lundie  turned  round,  and  looked  at  her 
impatiently. 

"  Can't  you  see  yet,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  that 
your  interest  and  my  interest  in  this  matter  are 
one?  What  have  I  told  you?" 

"Don't  repeat  it!" 

"  I  must  repeat  it !  I  have  told  you  that  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth  was  privately  at  Craig  Fernie, 
with  Miss  Silvester,  in  the  acknowledged  char- 
acter of  her  husband — when  we  supposed  him  to 
be  visiting  the  estate  left  him  by  his  aunt.  You 
refuse  to  believe  it — and  I  am  about  to  put  it  to 
the  proof.  Is  it  your  interest  or  is  it  not,  to 
know  whether  this  man  deserves  the  blind  belief 
that  you  place  in  him  ?" 

Blanche  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  made 
no  reply. 

"I  am  going  into  the  garden,  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Brinkworth  through  the  smoking  room  window," 
pursued  her  ladyship.  "Have  you  the  courage 
to  come  with  me ;  to  wait  behind  out  of  sight ; 
and  to  hear  what  he  says  with  his  own  lips  ?  I 
am  not  afraid  of  putting  it  to  that  test.  Are 
you  ?" 

The  tone  in  which  she  asked  the  question 
roused  BlancKe's  spirit. 

"  If  I  believed  him  to  be  guilty,"  she  said,  res- 
olutely, "  I  should  not  have  the  courage.  I  be- 
lieve him  to  be  innocent.  Lead  the  way,  Lady 
Lundie,  as  soon  as  you  please." 

They  left  the  room — Blanche's  own  room  at 
Ham  Farm — and  descended  to  the  hall.  Lady 
Lundie  stopped,  and  consulted  the  railway  time- 
table hanging  near  the  house-door. 

"There  is  a  train  to  London  at  a  quarter  to 
twelve,"  she  said.  "How  long  does  it  take  to 
walk  to  the  station  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?* 

"  You  will  soon  know.    Answer  my  question. " 

"  It's  a  walk  of  twenty  minutes  to  the  station." 

Lady  Lundie  referred  to  her  watch.  "There 
will  be  just  time,"ehe  said. 

"Time  for  what?" 

"Come  into  the  garden." 

With  that  answer,  she  led  the  way  out. 

The  smoking-room  projected  at  right  angles 
from  the  wall  of  the  house,  in  an  oblong  form — 
with  a  bow-window  at  the  farther  end,  looking 
into  the  garden.  Before  she  turned  the  corner, 
and  showed  herself  within  the  range  of  view  from 
the  window,  Lady  Lundie  looked  back,  and 
signed  to  Blanche  to  wait  behind  the  angle  of 
the  wall.  Blanche  waited. 

The  next  instant  she  heard  the  voices  in  con- 
versation through  the  open  window.  Arnold  s 
voice  was  the  first  that  spoke. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


175 


"HAVE  YOU  SEEN  BLANCHE?" 


"  Lady  Lundie !  Why,  we  didn't  expect  you 
till  luncheon  time  ! " 

Lady  Lundie  was  ready  with  her  answer. 

"  I  was  able  to  leave  town  earlier  than  I  had 
anticipated.  Don't  put  out  your  cigar ;  and  don't 
move.  1  am  not  coming  in. " 

The  quick  interchange  of  question  and  answer 
went  on ;  every  word  being  audible  in  the  per- 
fect stillness  of  the  place.  Arnold  was  the  next 
to  speak. 

"  Have  you  seen  Blanche?" 

"  Blanclie  is  getting  ready  to  go  out  with  me. 
We  mean  to  have  a  walk  together.  I  have  many 
things  to  say  to  her.  Before  we  go,  1  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you. " 

"  Is  it  any  thing  very  serious  ?" 

"  It  is  most  serious." 

"About  me?" 

"  About  you.  I  know  where  you  went  on  the 
evening  of  my  lawn-party  at  Windygates — you 
went  to  Craig  Fernie." 

"  Good  Heavens !  how  did  you  find  out —  ?" 

"I  know  whom  you  went  to  meet — Miss  Sil- 
vester. 1  know  what  is  said  of  you  and  of  her — 
you  are  man  and  wife." 

"Hush !  don't  speak  so  loud.  Somebody  may 
hear  you !" 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  they  do  ?  I  am  the 
only  person  whom  you  have  kept  out  of  the  se- 
cret. You  all  of  you  know  it  here." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort !  Blanche  doesn't  know 
it." 

"  What !  Neither  you  nor  Sir  Patrick  has  told 
Blanche  of  the  situation  you  stand  in  at  this  mo- 
ment ?" 

"Not  yet.  Sir  Patrick  leaves  it  to  me.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  bring  myself  to  do  it.  Don't 


say  a  word,  I  entreat  you !  I  don't  know  how 
Blanche  may  interpret  it.  Her  fi-iend  is  expect- 
ed in  London  to-morrow.  I  want  to  wait  till 
Sir  Patrick  can  bring  them  together.  Her  friend 
will  break  it  to  her  better  than  I  can.  It's  my 
notion.  Sir  Patrick  thinks  it  a  good  one.  Stop ! 
you're  not  going  away  already  ?"  . 

"  She  will  be  here  to  look  for  me  if  I  stay  any 
longer. " 

"  One  word !     I  want  to  know — " 
"You  shall  know  later  in  the  day." 

Her  ladyship  appeared  again  round  the  angle 
of  the  wail.  The  next  words  that  passed  were 
words  spoken  in  a  whisper. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now,  Blanche?" 

"  Have  you  mercy  enough  left,  Lady  Lundie, 
to  take  me  away  from  this  house  ?" 

"  My  dear  child !  Why  else  did  I  look  at  the 
time-table  in  the  hall  ?" 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-THIRD. 

THE    EXPLOSION. 

ARNOLD'S  mind  was  far  from  easy  when  he 
was  left  by  himself  again  in  the  smoking-room. 

After  wasting  some  time  in  vainly  trying  to 
guess  at  the  source  from  which  Lady  Lundie  had 
de'rived  her  information,  he  put  on  his  hat,  and 
took  the  direction  which  led  to  Blanche's  favorite 
walk  at  Ham  Farm.  Without  absolutely  dis- 
trusting her  ladyship's  discretion,  the  idea  had 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  do  well  to  join  his 
wife  and  her  step-mother.  By  making  a  third 
at  the  interview  between  them,  he  might  prevent 


176 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


the  conversation  from  assuming  a  perilously  con- 
fidential turn. 

The  search  for  the  ladies  proved  useless.  They 
had  not  taken  the  direction  in  which  he  supposed 
them  to  have  gone. 

He  returned  to  the  smoking-room,  and  com- 
posed himself  to  wait  for  events  as  patiently  as 
he  might.  In  this  passive  position — with  his 
thoughts  still  running  on  Lady  Lundie  —  his 
memory  reverted  to  a  brief  conversation  between 
Sir  Patrick  and  himself,  occasioned,  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  by  her  ladyship's  announcement  of 
her  proposed  visit  to  Ham  Farm.  .  Sir  Patrick 
had  at  once  expressed  his  conviction  that  his 
sister-in-law's  journey  south  had  some  acknowl- 
edged purpose  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Arnold"  (he  had  said), 
"that  I  have  done  wisely  in  leaving  her  letter 
unanswered.  And  I  am  strongly  disposed  to 
think  that  the  safest  course  will  be  to  take  her 
into  the  secret  when  she  comes  to-morrow.  We 
can't  help  the  position  in  which  we  are  placed. 
It  was  impossible  (without  admitting  your  wife 
to  our  confidence)  to  prevent  Blanche  from  writ- 
ing that  unlucky  letter  to  her — and,  even  if  we 
had  prevented  it,  she  must  have  heard  in  other 
ways  of  your  return  to  England.  I  don't  doubt 
my  own  discretion,  so  far ;  and  I  don't  doubt 
the  convenience  of  keeping  her  in  the  dark,  as 
a  means  of  keeping  her  from  meddling  in  this 
business  of  yours,  until  I  have  had  time  to  set  it 
right.  But  she  may,  by  some  unlucky  accident, 
discover  the  truth  for  herself — and,  in  that  case, 
I  strongly  distrust  the  influence  which  she  might 
attempt  to  exercise  on  Blanche's  mind." 

Those  were  the  words — and  what  had  hap- 
pened on  the  day  after  they  had  been  spoken  ? 
Lady  Lundie  had  discovered  the  truth ;  and  she 
was,  at  that  moment,  alone  somewhere  with 
Blanche.  Arnold  took  up  his  hat  once  more, 
and  set  forth  on  the  search  for  the  ladies  in  an- 
other direction. 

The  second  expedition  was  as  fruitless  as  the 
first.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen,  and  nothing  was 
to  be  heard,  of  Lady  Lundie  and  Blanche. 

Arnold's  watch  told  him  that  it  was  not  far 
from  the  time  when  Sir  Patrick  might  be  ex- 
pected to  return.  In  all  probability,  while  he 
had  been  looking  for  them,  the  ladies  had  gone 
back  by  some  other  way  to  the  house.  He  en- 
tered the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  one  after 
another.  They  were  all  empty.  He  went  up 
stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Blanche's 
room.  There  was  no  answer.  He  opened  the 
door  and  looked  in.  The  room  was  empty,  like 
the  rooms  down  stairs.  But,  close  to  the  en- 
trance, there  was  a  trifling  circumstance  to  at- 
tract notice,  in  the  shape  of  a  note  lying  on  the 
carpet.  He  picked  it  up,  and  saw  that  it  was 
addressed  to  him  in  the  handwrfting  of  his  wife. 

He  opened  it.  The  note  began,  without  the 
usual  form  of  address,  in  these  words : 

"I  know  the  abominable  secret  that  you  and 
my  uncle  have  hidden  from  me.  I  know  your 
infamy,  and  her  infamy,  and  the  position  in 
which,  thanks  to  you  and  to  her,  I  now  stand. 
Reproaches  would  be  wasted  words,  addressed 
to  such  a  man  as  you  are.  I  write  these  lines 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  placed  myself  under  my 
step-mother's  protection  in  London.  It  is  use- 
less to  attempt  to  follow  me.  Others  will  find 
out  whether  the  ceremony  of  marriage  which 


you  went  through  with  me  is  binding  on  you  or 
not.  For  myself,  I  know  enough  already.  I 
have  gone,  never  to  come  back,  and  never  to  let 
you  see  me  again. — Blanche." 

Hurrying  headlong  down  the  stairs  with  but 
one  clear  idea  in  his  mind — the  idea  of  instantly 
following  his  wife — Arnold  encountered  Sir  Pat- 
rick, standing  by  a  table  in  the  hall,  on  which 
cards  and  notes  left  by  visitors  were  usually 
placed,  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  Seeing 
in  an  instant  what  had  happened,  he  threw  one 
of  his  arms  round  Arnold,  and  stopped  him  at 
the  house-door. 

"You  are  a  man,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  Bear  it 
like  a  man. " 

Arnold's  head  fell  on  the  shoulder  of  his  kind 
old  friend.  He  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  let  the  irrepressible  outbreak  of 
grief  have  its  way.  In  those  first  moments,  si- 
lence was  mercy.  He  said  nothing.  The  letter 
which  he  had  been  reading  (from  Lady  Lundie, 
it  is  needless  to  say),  dropped  unheeded  at  his 
feet. 

Arnold  lifted  his  head,  and  dashed  away  the 
tears. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  said.  "Let 
me  go." 

"Wrong,  my  poor  fellow — doubly  wrong!" 
returned  Sir  Patrick.  "  There  is  no  shame  in 
shedding  such  tears  as  those.  And  there  is  no- 
thing to  be  done  by  leaving  me. " 

"  I  must  and  will  see  her !" 

"  Eead  that,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  pointing  to  the 
letter  on  the  floor.  "See  your  wife ?  Your  wife 
is  with  the  woman  who  has  written  those  lines. 
Read  them." 

Arnold  read  them. 

"DEAR  SIR  PATRICK, — If  you  had  honored 
me  with  your  confidence,  I  should  have  been 
happy  to  consult  you  before  I  interfered  to  rescue 
Blanche  from  the  position  in  which  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  has  placed  her.  As  it  is,  your  late  broth- 
er's child  4s  under  my  protection  at  my  house 
in  London.  If  you  attempt  to  exercise  your  au- 
thority, it  must  be  by  main  force — I  wifl  submit 
to  nothing  less.  If  Mr.  Brinkworth  attempts  to 
exercise  his  authority,  he  shall  establish  his  right 
to  do  so  (if  he  can)  in  a  police-court. 

"  Very  truly  yours,         JULIA  LUNDIE." 

Arnold's  resolution  was  not  to  be  shaken  even 
by  this.  "  What  do  I  care,"  he  burst  out,  hotly, 
"whether  I  am  dragged  through  the  streets  by 
the  police  or  not !  I  will  see  my  wife.  I  will 
clear  myself  of  the  horrible  suspicion  she  has 
about  me.  You  have  shown  me  your  letter. 
Look  at  mine !" 

Sir  Patrick's  clear  sense  saw  the  wild  words 
that  Blanche  had  written  in  their  true  light. 

"Do  you  hold  your  wife  responsible  for  that 
letter  ?"  he  asked.  ' '  I  see  her  step-mother  in 
every  line  of  it.  You  descend  to  something  un- 
worthy of  you,  if  you  seriously  defend  yourself 
against  this!  You  can't  see  it ?  You  persist  in 
holding  to  your  own  view  ?  Write,  then.  Yon 
can't  get  to  her — your  letter  may.  No !  When 
you  leave  this  house,  you  leave  it  with  me.  I 
have  conceded  something,  on  my  side,  in  allow- 
ing you  to  write.  I  insist  on  your  conceding 
something,  on  your  side,  in  return.  Come  into 
the  library !  I  answer  for  setting  things  right 
j  between  you  and  Blanche,  if  you  will  place  your 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


177 


interests  in  mv  hands.  Do  you  trust  me  or 
not?" 

Arnold  yielded.  They  went  into  the  library 
together.  Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  writing- 
table.  "Relieve  your  mind  there,  "he  said.  "And 
let  me  find  you  a  reasonable  man  again  when  I 
come  back." 

When  he  returned  to  the  library  the  letter  was 
written  ;  and  Arnold's  mind  was  so  far  relieved 
— for  the  time  at  least. 

"I  shall  take  your  letter  to  Blanche  myself," 
said  Sir  Patrick,  "  by  the  train  that  leaves  for 
London  in  half  an  hour's  time." 

"You  will  let  me  go  with  you?" 

"  Not  to-day.  I  shall  be  back  this  evening  to 
dinner.  You  shall  hear  all  that  has  happened ; 
and  you  shall  accompany  me  to  London  to-mor- 
row— if  I  find  it  necessary  to  make  any  length- 
ened stay  there.  Between  this  and  then,  after 
the  shock  that  you  have  suffered,  you  will  do 
well  to  be  quiet  here.  Be  satisfied  with  my  as- 
surance that  Blanche  shall  have  your  letter.  I 
will  force  my  authority  on  her  step-mother  to  that 
extent  (if  her  step-mother  resists)  without  scru- 
ple. The  respect  in  which  I  hold  the  sex  only 
lasts  as  long  as  the  sex  deserves  it — and  does 
not  extend  to  Lady  Lundie.  There  is  no  ad- 
vantage that  a  man  can  take  of  a  woman  which 
I  am  not  fully  prepared  to  take  of  my  sister-in- 
law.  " 

With  that  characteristic  farewell,  he  shook 
hands  with  Arnold,  and  departed  for  the  station. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  dinner  was  on  the  table. 
At  seven  o'clock  Sir  Patrick  came  down  stairs  to 
eat  it,  as  perfectly  dressed  as  usual,  and  as  com- 
posed as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  She  has  got  your  letter,"  he  whispered,  as  he 
took  Arnold's  arm,  and  led  him  into  the  dining- 
room. 

"Did  she  say  any  thing?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"How  did  she  look?" 

"As  she  ought  to  look — sorry  for  what  she 
has  done." 

Thedinner  began.  As  a  matter  of  necessity,  the 
subject  of  Sir  Patrick's  expedition  was  dropped 
while  the  sen-ants  were  in  the  room — to  be  reg- 
ularly taken  up  again  by  Arnold  in  the  intervals 
between  the  courses.  He  began  when  the  soup 
was  taken  away. 

"I  confess  I  had  hoped  to  see  Blanche  come 
back  with  you !"  he  said,  sadly  enough. 

"  In  other  words,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "you 
forgot  the  native  obstinacy  of  the  sex.  Blanche 
is  beginning  to  feel  that  she  has  been  wrong. 
What  is  the  necessary  consequence?  She  nat- 
urally persists  in  being  wrong.  Let  her  alone, 
and  leave  your  letter  to  have  its  effect.  The 
serious  difficulties  in  our  way  don't  rest  with 
Blanche.  Content  yourself  with  knowing  that." 

The  fish  came  in,  and  Arnold  was  silenced — 
until  his  next  opportunity  came  with  the  next 
interval  in  the  course  of  the  dinner. 

"  What  are  the  difficulties?"  he  asked. 

"  The  difficulties  are  my  difficulties  and  yours," 
answered  Sir  Patrick.  '"'  My  difficulty  is^  that  I 
can't  assert  my  authority,  as  guardian,  if  I  as- 
sume my  niece  (as  I  do)  to  be  a  married  woman. 
Your  difficulty  Is,  that  you  can't  assert  your  au- 
thority as  her  husband,  until  it  is  distinctly  proved 
that  you  and  Miss  Silvester  are  not  man  and  wife. 


Lady  Lundie  was  perfectly  aware  that  she  would 
place  us  in  that  position,  when  she  removed 
Blanche  from  this  house.  She  has  cross-exam- 
ined Mrs.  Inchbare;  she  has  written  to  your 
steward  for  the  date  of  your  arrival  at  your 
estate ;  she  has  done  every  thing,  calculated 
every  thing,  and  foreseen  every  thing — except 
my  excellent  temper.  The  one  mistake  she  has 
made,  is  in  thinking  she  could  get  the  better  of 
that.  No,  my  dear  boy!  My  trump  card  is  my 
temper.  I  keep  it  in  my  hand,  Arnold — I  keep 
it  in  my  hand !" 

The  next  course  came  in — and  there  was  an 
end  of  the  subject  again.  Sir  Patrick  enjoyed 
his  mutton,  and  entered  on  a  long  and  interest- 
ing narrative  of  the  history  of  some  rare  white 
Burgundy  on  the  table  imported  by  himself. 
Arnold  resolutely  resumed  the  discussion  with 
the  departure  of  the  mutton. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  dead  lock,"  he  said. 

"No  slang!"  retorted  Sir  Patrick. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Sir,  consider  my  anx- 
iety, and  tell  me  what  you  propose  to  do ! " 

"  I  propose  to  take  you  to  London  with  me 
to-morrow,  on  this  condition — that  you  promise, 
me,  on  your  word  of  honor,  not  to  attempt  to 
see  your  wife  before  Saturday  next. " 

"  I  shall  see  her  then  ?" 

"  If  vou  give  me  vour  promise." 

"I  do!  I  do!" 

The  next  course  came  in.  Sir  Patrick  entered 
on  the  question  of  the  merits  of  the  partridge, 
viewed  as  an  eatable  bird.  "By  himself,  Ar- 
nold— plainly  roasted,  and  tested  on  his  own 
merits — an  overrated  bird.  Being  too  fond  of 
shooting  him  in  this  country,  we  become  too 
fond  of  eating  him  next.  Properly  understood, 
he  is  a  vehicle  for  sauce  and  truffles — nothing 
more.  Or  no — that  is  hardly  doing  him  justice. 
I  am  bound  to  add  that  he  is  honorably  associa- 
ted with  the  famous  French  receipt  for  cooking 
an  olive.  Do  you  know  it  ?'' 

There  was  an  end  of  the  bird ;  there  was  an 
end  of  the  jelly.  Arnold  got  his  next  chance — 
and  took  it. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  in  London  to-morrow?'' 
he  asked. 

"To-morrow,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "is  a 
memorable  day  in  our  calendar.  To-morrow  is 
Tuesday — the  day  on  which  I  am  to  see  Miss 
Silvester." 

Arnold  set  down  the  glass  of  wine  which  he 
was  just  raising  to  his  lips. 

''After  what  has  happened,"  he  said,  "I  can 
hardly  bear  to  hear  her  name  mentioned.  Miss 
Silvester  has  parted  me  from  my  wife. " 

"Miss  Silvester  may  atone  for  that,  Arnold, 
by  uniting  you  again. " 

"She  has  been  the  ruin  of  me  so  far." 

"She  may  be  the  salvation  of  you  yet." 

The  cheese  came  in ;  and  Sir  Patrick  returned 
to  the  Art  of  Cookery. 

"Do  you  know  the  receipt  for  cooking  an 
olive,  Arnold?" 

"No." 

"What  does  the  new  generation  know?  It 
knows  how  to  row,  how  to  shoot,  how  to  play  at 
cricket,  and  how  to  bet.  When  it  has  lost  its 
muscle  and  lost  its  money — that  is  to  say,  when 
it  has  grown  old — what  a  generation  it  will  be ! 
It  doesn't  matter :  I  sha'n't  live  to  see  it.  Are 
you  listening,  Arnold  ?" 


178 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  How  to  cook  an  olive :  Put  an  olive  into  a 
lark ;  put  a  lark  into  a  quail ;  put  a  quail  into 
a  plover ;  put  a  plover  into  a  partridge ;  put  a 
partridge  into  a  pheasant ;  put  a  pheasant  into 
a  turkey.  Good.  First,  partially  roast;  then 
carefully  stew — until  all  is  thoroughly  done  down 
to  the  olive.  Good  again.  Next,  open  the  win- 
dow. Throw  out  the  turkey,  the  pheasant,  the 
partridge,  the  plover,  the  quail,  and  the  lark. 
Then,  eat  the  olive.  The  dish  is  expensive,  but 
(we  have  it  on  the  highest  authority)  well  worth 
the  sacrifice.  The  quintessence  of  the  flavor  of 
six  birds,  concentrated  in  one  olive.  Grand 
idea !  Try  another  glass  of  the  white  Burgun- 
dy, Arnold." 

At  last  the  servants  left  them — with  the  wine 
and  dessert  on  the  table. 

"  I  have  borne  it  as  long  as  I  can,  Sir,"  said 
Arnold.  "Add  to  all  your  kindness  to  me  by 
telling  me  at  once  what  happened  at  Lady  Lun- 
die's." 

It  was  a  chilly  evening.  A  bright  wood  fire 
was  burning  in  the  room.  Sir  Patrick  drew  his 
chair  to  the  fire. 

"This  is  exactly  what  happened,"  he  said. 
"I  found  company  at  Lady  Lundie's,  to  begin 
with.  Two  perfect  strangers  to  me.  Captain 
Newenden,  and  his  niece,  Mrs.  Glenarm.  Lady 
Lundie  offered  to  see  me  in  another  room ;  the 
two  strangers  offered  to  withdraw.  I  declined 
both  proposals.  First  check  to  her  ladyship! 
bhe  has  reckoned  throughout,  Arnold,  on  our 
being  afraid  to  face  public  opinion.  I  showed 
her  at  starting  that  we  were  as  ready  to  face  it 
as  she  was.  '  I  always  accept  what  the  French 
call  accomplished  facts,'  I  .said.  '  You  have 
brought  matters  to  a  crisis,  Lady  Lundie.  So 
let  it  be.  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  my  niece  (in 
your  presence,  if  you  like) ;  and  I  have  another 
word  to  say  to  you  afterward — without  presum- 
ing to  disturb  your  guests. '  The  guests  sat  down 
again  (both  naturally  devoured  by  curiosity). 
Could  her  ladyship  decently  refuse  me  an  inter- 
view with  my  own  niece,  while  two  witnesses 
were  looking  on?  Impossible.  I  saw  Blanche 
(Lady  Lundie  being  present,  it  .is  needless  to 
say)  in  the  back  drawing-room.  I  gave  her 
your  letter ;  I  said  a  good  word  for  you ;  I  saw 
that  she  was  sorry,  though  she  wouldn't  own  it 
— and  that  was  enough.  We  went  back  into 
the  front  drawing  room.  I  had  not  spoken  five 
words  on  our  side  of  the  question  before  it  ap- 
peared, to  my  astonishment  and  delight,  that 
Captain  Newenden  was  in  the  house  on  the  very 
question  that  had  brought  me  into  the  house — 
the  question  of  you  and  Miss  Silvester.  Mv 
business,  in  the  interests  of  my  niece,  was  to 
deny  your  marriage  to  the  lady.  His  business, 
in  the  interests  of  his  niece,  was  to  assert  your 
marriage  to  the  lady.  To  the  unutterable  dis- 
gust of  the  two  women,  we  joined  issue,  in  the 
most  friendly  manner,  on  the  spot.  '  Charmed 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  Captain 
Newenden.' — 'Delighted  to  have  the  honor  of 
making  your  acquaintance,  Sir  Patrick.' — 'I 
think  we  can  settle  this  in  two  minutes  ?' — '  My 
own  idea  perfectly  expressed.' — 'State  your  po- 
sition, Captain.' — 'With  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Here  is  my  niece,  Mrs.  Glenarm,  engaged  to 
marry  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  All  very  well, 
but  there  happens  to  be  an  obstacle — in  the  shape 


of  a  lady.  Do  I  put  it  plainly?' — 'You  put  it 
admirably,  Captain  ;  but  for  the  loss  to  the  Brit- 
ish navy,  you  ought  to  have  been  a  lawyer. 
Pray,  go  on.' — '  You  are  too  good,  Sir  Patrick. 
I  resume.  Mr.  Delamayn  asserts  that  this  per- 
son in  the  back-ground  has  no  claim  on  him, 
and  backs  his  assertion  by  declaring  that  she 
is  married  already  to  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth. 
Lady  Lundie  and  my  niece  assure  me,  on  evi- 
dence which  satisfies  them,  that  the  assertion  is 
true.  The  evidence  does  not  satisfy  me.  I  hope, 
Sir  Patrick,  I  don't  strike  you  as  being  an  ex- 
cessively obstinate  man?' — 'My  dear  JSir,  you 
impress  me  with  the  highest  opinion  of  your  ca- 
pacity for  sifting  human  testimony !  May  I  ask, 
next,  what  course  you  mean  to  take  ?' — '  The 
very  thing  I  was  going  to  mention,  Sir  Patrick ! 
This  is  my  course.  I  refuse  to  sanction  my 
niece's  engagement  to  Mr.  Delamayn,  until  Mr. 
Delamayn  has  actually  proved  his  statement  by 
appeal  to  witnesses  of  the  lady's  marriage.  He 
refers  me  to  two  witnesses ;  but  declines  acting 
at  once  in  the  matter  for  himself,  on  the  ground 
that  he  is  in  training  for  a  foot-race.  1  admit 
that  that  is  an  obstacle,  and  consent  to  arrange 
for  bringing  the  two  witnesses  to  London  myself. 
By  this  post  I  have  written  to  my  lawyers  in 
Perth  to  look  the  witnesses  up;  to  offer  them 
the  necessary  terms  (at  Mr.  Delamayn's  expense) 
for  the  use  of  their  time ;  and  to  produce  them 
by  the  end  of  the  week.  The  foot-race  is  on 
Thursday  next.  Mr.  Delamayn  will  be  able  to 
attend  after  that,  and  establish  his  own  assertion 
by  his  own  witnesses.  What  do  you  say,  Sir 
Patrick,  to  Saturday  next  (with  Lady  Lundie's 
permission)  in  this  room?' — There  is  the  sub- 
stance of  the  captain's  statement.  He  is  as 
old  as  I  am,  and  is  dressed  to  look  like  thirty; 
but  a  very  pleasant  fellow  for  all  that.  I  struck 
my  sister-in-law  dumb  by  accepting  the  proposal 
without  a  moment's  hesitation.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
and  Lady  Lundie  looked  at  each  other  in  mute 
amazement.  Here  was  a  difference  about  which 
two  women  would  have  mortally  quarreled  ;  and 
here  were  two  men  settling  it  in  the  friendliest 
possible  manner.  I  wish  you  had  seen  Lady 
Lundie's  face,  when  I  declared  myself  deeply 
indebted  to  Captain  Newenden  for  rendering  any 
prolonged  interview  with  her. ladyship  quite  un- 
necessary. 'Thanks  to  the  captain,'  I  said  to 
her,  in  the  most  cordial  mannei-,  '  we  have  ab- 
solutely nothing  to  discuss.  I  shall  catch  the 
next  train,  and  set  Arnold  Brinkworth's  mind 
quite  at  ease.'  To  come  back  to  serious  things, 
I  have  engaged  to  produce  you,  in  the  presence 
of  every  body — your  wife  included — on  Saturday 
next.  I  put  a  bold  face  on  it  before  the  others. 
But  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  that  it  is  by  no  means 
easy  to  say — situated  as  we  are  now — what  the 
result  of  Saturday's  inquiry  will  be.  Every  thing 
depends  on  the  issue  of  my  interview  with  Miss 
Silvester  to-morrow.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to 
say,  Arnold,  that  your  fate  is  in  her  hands." 

"I  wish  to  heaven  I  had  never  set  eyes  on 
her!"  said  Arnold. 

"  Lay  the  saddle  on  the  right  horse,"  returned 
Sir  Patrick.  "  Wish  you  had  never  set  eyes  on 
Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Arnold  hung  his  head.  Sir  Patrick's  sharp 
tongue  had  got  the  better  of  him  once  more. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


179 


TWELFTH  SCENE.— DRURY  LANE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FOURTH. 

THE    LETTER   AND    THE    LAW. 

THK  many-toned  murmur  of  the  current  of 
London  life— flowing  through  the  murky  chan- 
nel of  Drury  Lane — found  its  muffled  way  from 
the  front  room  to  the  back.  Piles  of  old  music 
lumbered  the  dusty  floor.  Stage  masks  and 
weapons,  and  portraits  of  singers  and  dancers, 
hung  round  the  walls.  An  empty  violin  case  in 
one  corner  faced  a  broken  bust  of  Rossini  in  an- 
other. A  frameless  print,  representing  the  Trial 
of  Queen  Caroline,  was  pasted  over  the  fire- 
place. The  chairs  were  genuine  specimens  of 
ancient  carving  in  oak.  The  table  was  an  equal- 
ly excellent  example  of  dirty  modern  deal.  A 
small  morsel  of  drugget  was  on  the  floor ;  and  a 
large  deposit  of  soot  was  oh  the  ceiling.  The 
scene  thus  presented,  revealed  itself  in  the  back 
drawing-room  of  a  house  in  Drury  Lane,  devoted 
to  the  transaction  of  musical  and  theatrical  busi- 
ness of  the  humbler  sort.  It  was  late  in  the  aft- 
ernoon, on  Michaelrnas-day.  Two  persons  were 
seated  together  in  the  room :  they  were  Anne 
Silvester  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

The  opening  conversation  between  them — 
comprising,  on  one  side,  the  narrative  of  what 
had  happened  at  Perth  and  at  Swanhaven ;  and, 
on  the  other,  a  statement  of  the  circumstances 
attending  the  separation  of  Arnold  and  Blanche 
— had  come  to  an  end.  It  rested  with  Sir  Pat- 
rick to  lead  the  way  to  the  next  topic.  He  looked 
at  his  companion,  and  hesitated.- 

"Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go  on?"  he 
asked.  "  If  you  would  prefer  to  rest  a  little, 
pray  say  so." 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick.  I  am  more  than 
ready,  I  am  eager,  to  go  on.  No  words  can  say 
how  anxious  I  feel  to  be  of  some  use  to  you,  if  I 
can.  It  rests  entirely  with  your  experience  to 
show  me  how." 

' '  I  can  only  do  that,  Miss  Silvester,  by  asking 
you.  without  ceremony  for  all  the  information 
that  I  want.  Had  you  any  object  in  traveling  to 
London,  which  you  have  not  mentioned  to  me 
yet  ?  I  mean,  of  course,  any  object  with  which 
I  have  a  claim  (as  Arnold  Brinkworth's  repre- 
sentative) to  be  acquainted  ?" 

"I  had  an  object,  Sir  Patrick.  And  I  have 
failed  to  accomplish  it." 

"  May  I  ask  what  it  was?" 

"It  was  to  see  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Sir  Patrick  started.  "  You  have  attempted  to 
see  him  !  When  ?" 

"This  morning." 

"Why,  you  only,  arrived  in  London  last 
night!" 

"I  only  arrived,"  said  Anne,  "after  waiting 
many  days  on  the  journey.  I  was  obliged  to  rest 
at  Edinburgh,  and  again  at  York — and  I  was 
afraid  I  had  given  Mrs.  Glenarm  time  enough  to 
get  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn  before  me." 

"Afraid?"  repeated  Sir  Patrick.  "I  under- 
stood that  you  had  no  serious  intention  of  disput- 
ing the  scoundrel  with  Mrs.  Glenarm.  What 
motive  could  possibly  have  taken  you  his  way  ?" 

"The  same  motive  which  took  me  to  Swan- 
haven." 

"  What !  the  idea  that  it  rested  with  Delamayn 
to  set  things  right?  and  that  you  might  bribe 


him  to  do  it,  by  consenting  to  release  him,  so  far 
as  your  claims  were  concerned  ?" 

"Bear  with  my  folly,  Sir  Patrick,  as  patiently 
as  you  can  !  I  am  always  alone  now ;  and  I  get 
into  a  habit  of  brooding  over  things.  I  have 
been  brooding  over  the  position  in  which  my 
misfortunes  have  placed  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I 
have  been  obstinate — unreasonably  obstinate — in 
believing  that  I  could  prevail  with  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn, after  I  had  failed  with  Mrs.  Glenarm.  I 
am  obstinate  about  it  still.  If  he  would  only 
have  heard  me,  my  madness  in  going  to  Kulhara 
might  have  had  its  excuse."  She  sighed  bitter- 
ly, and  said  no  more. 

Sir  Patrick  took  her  hand. 

"  It  has  its  excuse,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  Your 
motive  is  beyond  reproach.  Let  me  add — to 
quiet  your  mind — that,  even  if  Delamayn  had 
been  willing  to  hear  you,  and  had  accepted  the 
condition,  the  result  would  still  have  been  the 
same.  You  are  quite  wrong  in  supposing  that 
he  has  only  to  speak,  and  to  set  this  matter  right. 
It  has  passed  entirely  beyond  his  control.  The 
mischief  was  clone  when  Arnold  Brinkworth 
spent  those  unlucky  hours  with  you  at  Craig 
Fernie." 

"Oh,  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  had  only  known  that, 
before  I  went  to  Fulham  this  morning !" 

She  shuddered  as  she  said  the  words.  Some- 
thing was  plainly  associated  with  her  visit  to 
Geoffrey,  the  bare  remembrance  of  which  shook 
her  nerves.  What  was  it  ?  Sir  Patrick  resolved 
to  obtain  an  answer  to  that  question,  before  he 
ventured  on  proceeding  further  with  the  main 
object  of  the  interview. 

"  You  have  told  me  your  reason  for  going  to 
Fulham,"  he  said.  "  But  I  have  not  heard  what 
happened  there  yet." 

Anne  hesitated.  "  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to 
trouble  yon  about  that?"  she  asked — with  evi- 
dent reluctance  to  enter  on  the  subject. 

"It  is  absolutely  necessary,"  answered  Sir 
Patrick,  "  because  Delamayn  is  concerned  in  it." 

Anne  summoned  her  resolution,  and  entered 
on  her  narrative  in  these  words : 

"  The  person  who  carries  on  the  business  here 
discovered  the  address  for  me,"  she  began.  "  I 
had  some  difficulty,  however,  in  finding  the 
house.  It  is  little  more  than  a  cottage ;  and  it 
is  quite  lost  in  a  great  garden,  surrounded  by 
high  walls.  I  saw  a  carriage  waiting.  The 
coachman  was  walking  his  horses  up  and  down 
— and  lie  showed  me  the  door.  It  was  a  high 
wooden  door  in  the  wall,  with  a  grating  in  it.  I 
rang  the  bell.  A  servant-girl  opened  the  grat- 
ing, and  looked  at  me.  She  refused  to  let  me 
in.  Her  mistress  had  ordered  her  to  close  the 
door  on  all  strangers — especially  strangers  who 
were  women.  I  contrived  to  pass  some  money 
to  her  through  the  grating,  and  asked  to  speak 
to  her  mistress.  After  waiting  some  time,  I  saw 
another  face  behind  the  bars — and  it  struck  me 
that  I  recognized  it.  I  suppose  I  was  nervous. 
It  startled  me.  I  said,  '  I  think  we  know  each 
other.'  There  was  no  answer.  The  door  was 
suddenly  opened — and  who  do  you  think  stood 
before  me  ?" 

"  Was  it  somebody  I  know  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Man  ?  or  woman  ?" 

"  It  was  Hester  Dethridge." 


180 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Hester  Dethridge !" 

"Yes.  Dressed  just  as  usual,  and  looking 
just  as  usual — with  her  slate  hanging  at  her 
side." 

"Astonishing!  Where  did  I  last  see  her? 
At  the  Windygates  station,  to  be  sure — going  to 
London,  after  she  had  left  my  sister-in-law's  serv- 
ice. Has  she  accepted  another  place — without 
letting  me  know  first,  as  I  told  her?" 

"  She  is  living  at  Fulham." 

"In  service?" 

"  No.     As  mistress  of  her  own  house." 

"  What !  Hester  Dethridge  in  possession  of  a 
house  of  her  own  ?  Well !  well !  why  shouldn't 
she  have  a  rise  in  the  world  like  other  people? 
Did  she  let  you  in  ?" 

"  She  stood  for  some  time  looking  at  me,  in 
that  dull  strange  way  that  she  has.  The  serv- 
ants at  Windygates  always  said  she  was  not  in 
her  right  mind — and  you  will  say,  Sir  Patrick, 
when  you  hear  what  happened,  that  the  servants 
were  not  mistaken.  She  must  be  mad.  I  said, 
'  Don't  you  remember  me  ?'  She  lifted  her  slate, 
and  wrote,  '  I  remember  you,  in  a  dead  swoon  at 
Windygates  House. '  I  was  quite  unaware  that 
she  had  been  present  when  I  fainted  in  the  li- 
brary. The  discovery  startled  me  —  or  that 
dreadful,  dead-cold  look  that  she  has  in  her  eyes 
startled  me — I  don't  know  which.  I  couldn't 
speak  to  her  just  at  first.  She  wrote  on  her 
slate  again  —  the  strangest  question  —  in  these 
words :  '  I  said,  at  the  time,  brought  to  it  by  a 
man.  Did  I  say  true  ?'  If  the  question  had 
been  put  in  the  usual  way,  by  any  body  else,  I 
should  have  considered  it  too  insolent  to  be  no- 
ticed. Can  you  understand  my  answering  it, 
Sir  Patrick  ?  I  can't  understand  it  myself,  now 
— and,  yet  I  did  answer.  She  forced  me  to  it 
with  her  stony  eyes.  I  said  '  yes. ' " 

"Did  all  this  take  place  at  the  door?" 

"At  the  door." 

"When  did  she  let  you  in?" 

"The  next  thing  she  did  was  to  let  me  in. 
She  took  me  by  the  arm,  in  a  rough  way,  and 
drew  me  inside  the  door,  and  shut  it.  My  nerves 
are  broken ;  my  courage  is  gone.  I  crept  with 
cold  when  she  touched  me.  She  dropped  my 
arm.  I  stood  like  a  child,  waiting  for  what  it 
pleased  her  to  say  or  do  next.  She  rested  her 
two  hands  on  her  sides,  and  took  a  long  look  at 
me.  She  made  a  horrid  dumb  sound — not  as  if 
she  was  angry ;  more,  if  such  a  thing  could  be, 
as  if  she  was  satisfied — pleased  even,  I  should 
have  said,  if  it  had  been  any  body  but  Hester 
Dethridge.  Do  you  understand  it?" 

"Not  yet.  Let  me  get  nearer  to  understand- 
ing it  by  asking  something  before  you  go  on. 
Did  she  show  any  attachment  to  you,  when  you 
were  both  at  Windygates  ?" 

"Not  the  least.  She  appeared  to  be  incapa- 
ble of  attachment  to  me,  or  to  any  body. " 

"Did  she  write  any  more  questions  on  her 
slate?" 

"Yes.  She  wrote  another  question  under 
what  she  had  written  just  before.  Her  mind 
was  still  running. on  my  fainting  fit,  and  on  the 
'  man'  who  had  '  brought  me  to  it. '  She  held  up 
the  slate ;  and  the  words  were  these :  '  Tell  me 
how  he  served  yon ;  did  he  knock  you  down  ?' 
Most  people  would  have  laughed  at  the  question. 
I  was  startled  by  it.  I  told  her,  No.  She  shook 
her  head  as  if  she  didn't  believe  me.  She  wrote 


on  her  slate,  '  We  are  loth  to  own  it  when  they  up 
with  their  fists  and  beat  us — ain't  we  ?'  I  said, 
'  You  are  quite  wrong.'  She  went  on  obstinate- 
ly with  her  writing.  '  Who  is  the  man  ?' — was 
her  next  question.  I  had  control  enough  over 
myself  to  decline  telling  her  that.  She  opened 
the  door,  and  pointed  to  me  to  go  out.  I  made 
a  sign  entreating  her  to  wait  a  little.  She  went 
back,  in  her  impenetrable  way,  to  the  writing  on 
the  slate — still  about  the  '  man.'  This  time,  the 
question  was  plainer  still.  She  had  evidently 
placed  her  own  interpretation  of  my  appearance 
at  the  house.  She  wrote,  '  Is  it  the  man  who 
lodges  here?'  I  saw  that  she  would  close  the 
door  on  me  if  I  didn't  answer.  My  only  chance 
with  her  was  to  own  that  she  had  guessed  right. 
I  said  '  Yes.  I  want  to  see  him.'  She  took  me 
by  the  arm,  as  roughly  as  before — and  led  me 
into  the  house." 

"I  begin  to  understand  her,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "I  remember  hearing,  in  my  brother's 
time,  that  she  had  been  brutally  ill-used  by  her 
husband.  The  association  of  ideas,  even  in  her 
confused  brain,  becomes  plain,  if  you  bear  that  in 
mind.  What  is  her  last  remembrance  of  you  ? 
It  is  the  remembrance  of  a  fainting  woman  at 
Wiiidvgates." 

"Yes." 

"  She  makes  you  acknowledge  that  she  has 
guessed  right,  in  guessing  that  a  man  was,  in 
some  way,  answerable  for  the  condition  in  which 
she  found  you.  A  swoon  produced  by  a  shock 
inflicted  on  the  mind,  is  a  swoon  that  she  doesn't 
understand.  She  looks  back  into  her  own  ex- 
perience, and  associates  it  with  the  exercise  of 
actual  physical  brutality  on  the  part  of  the  man. 
And  she  sees,  in  you,  a  reflection  of  her  own  suf- 
ferings and  her  own  case.  It's  curious — to  a 
student  of  human  nature.  And  it  explains,  what 
is  otherwise  unintelligible — her  overlooking  her 
own  instructions  to  the  servant,  and  letting  yon 
into  the  house.  What  happened  next?" 

"  She  took  me  into  a  room,  which  I  suppose 
was  her  own  room.  She  made  signs,  offering 
me  tea.  It  was  done  in  the  strangest  way — 
without  the  least  appearance  of  kindness.  After 
what  you  have  just  said  to  me,  I  think  I  can  in 
some  degree  interpret  what  was  going  on  in  her 
mind.  I  believe  she  felt  a  hard-hearted  interest 
in  seeing  a  woman  whom  she  supposed  to  be  as 
unfortunate  as  she  had  once  been  herself.  I  de- 
clined taking  any  tea,  and  tried  to  return  to  the 
subject  of  what  I  wanted  in  the  house.  She  paid 
no  heed  to  me.  She  pointed  round  the  room  ; 
and  then  took  me  to  a  window,  and  pointed 
round  the  garden — and  then  made  a  sign  indi- 
cating herself.  '  My  house  ;  and  my  garden' — 
that  was  what  she  meant. .  There  were  four  men 
in  the  garden — and  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  one 
of  them.  I  made  another  attempt  to  tell  her 
that  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him.  But,  no  !  She 
had  her  own  idea  in  her  mind.  After  beckon- 
ing to  me  to  leave  the  window,  she  led  the  way 
to  the  fire-place,  and  showed  me  a  sheet  of  paper 
with  writing  on  it,  framed  and  placed  under  a 
glass,  and  hung  on  the  wall.  She  seemed,  I 
thought,  to  feel  some  kind  of  pride  in  her  framed 
manuscript.  At  any  rate,  she  insisted  on  my 
reading  it.  It  was  an  extract  from  a  will." 

"The  will  under  which  she  had  inherited  the 
house  ?" 

"Yes.     Her  brother's  will.     It  said,  that  he 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


181 


regretted,  on  his  death-bed,  his  estrangement ' 
from  his  only  sister,  dating  from  the  time  when 
she  had  married  in  defiance  of  his  wishes  and 
against  his  advice.  As  a  proof  of  his  sincere  de- 
sire to  be  reconciled  with  her,  before  he  died,  ! 
and  as  some  compensation  for  the  sufferings  that 
she  had  endured  at  the  hands  of  her  deceased 
husband,  he  left  her  an  income  of  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  together  with  the  use  of  his  house 
and  garden,  for  her  lifetime.  That,  as  well  as  I 
remember,  was  the  substance  of  what  it  said." 

"  Creditable  to  her  brother,  and  creditable  to 
herself,''  said  Sir  Patrick.  "Taking  her  odd 
character  into  consideration,  I  understand  her 
liking  it  to  be  seen.  What  puzzles  me,  is  her 
letting  lodgings  with  an  income  of  her  own  to 
Ifve  on." 

-"That  was  the  very  question  which  I  put  to 
her  myself.    I  was  obliged  to  be  cautious,  and  to 
begin  by  asking  about  the  lodgers  first — the  men 
being  still  visible  out  in  the  garden,  to  excuse  j 
the  inquiry.     The  rooms  to  let  in  the  house  had  ; 
(as  I  understood  her)  been  taken  by  a  person  ! 
acting   for  Geoffrey   Delamayn — his  trainer,  I  j 
presume.     He  had  surprised  Hester  Dethridge  j 
by  barely  noticing  the  house,  and  showing  the 
most  extraordinary  interest  in  the  garden." 

"That  is  quite  intelligible,  Miss  Silvester. 
The  garden  you  have  described  would  be  just 
the  place  he  wanted  for  the  exercises  of  his  em- 
ployer— plenty  of  space,  and  well  secured  from 
observation  by  the  high  walls  all  round.  What 
next  ?" 

"  Next,  I  got  to  the  question  of  why  she  should 
let  her  house  in  lodgings  at  all.  When  I  asked 
her  that,  her  face  turned  harder  than  ever.  She 
answered  me  on  her  slate  in  these  dismal  words :  \ 
'  I  have  not  got  a  friend  in  the  world.  I  dare 
not  live  alone. '  There  was  her  reason  !  Dreary 
and  dreadful,  Sir  Patrick,  was  it  not?" 

"Dreary  indeed !  How  did  it  end  ?  Did  you 
get  into  the  garden  ?" 

"Yes — at  the  second  attempt.  She  seemed 
suddenly  to  change  her  mind ;  she  opened  the 
door  for  me  herself.  Passing  the  window  of  the 
room  in  which  I  had  left  her,  I  looked  back. 
She  had  taken  her  place,  at  a  table  before  the 
window,  apparently  watching  for  what  might 
happen.  There  was  something  about  her,  as  her 
eyes  met  mine  (I  can't  say  what),  which  made 
me  feel  uneasy  at  the  time.  Adopting  your 
view,  I  am  almost  inclined  to  think  now.  horrid 
as  the  idea  is,  that  she  had  the  expectation  of  see- 
ing me  treated  as  she  had  been  treated  in  former 
days.  It  was  actually  a  relief  to  me — though  I 
knew  I  was  going  to  run  a  serious  risk — to  lose 
sijrht  of  her.  As  I  got  nearer  to  the  men  in  the 
garden,  I  heard  two  of  them  talking  very  earn- 
estly to  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  The  fourth  person, 
an  elderly  gentleman,  stood  apart  from  the  rest 
at  some  little  distance.  I  kept  as  fiir  as  I  could 
out  of  sight,  waiting  till  the  talk  was  over.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  help  hearing  it.  The 
two  men  were  trying  to  persuade  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn to  speak  to  the  elderly  gentleman.  They 
pointed  to  him  as  a  famous  medical  man.  They 
reiterated  over  and  over  again,  that  his  opinion 
was  well  worth  having — " 

Sir  Patrick  interrupted  her.  "Did  they  men- 
tion his  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     They  called  him  Mr.  Speedwell." 

"The  man  himself!     This  is  even  more  in- 


teresting, Miss  Silvester,  than  you  suppose.  I 
myself  heard  Mr.  Speedwell  warn  Delamayn  that 
he  was  in  broken  health,  when  we  were  visiting 
together  at  Windygates  House  last  month.  Did 
he  do  as  the  other  men  wished  him?  Did  he 
speak  to  the  surgeon  ?" 

"No.  He  sulkily  refused — he  remembered 
what  you  remember.  He  said,  '  See  the  man 
who  told  me  I  was  broken  down  ? — not  I ! '  Aft- 
er confirming  it  with  an  oath,  he  turned  away 
from  the  others.  Unfortunately,  he  took  the  di- 
rection in  which  I  was  standing,  and  discovered 
me.  The  bare  sight  of  me  seemed  to  throw  him 
instantly  into  a  state  of  frenzy.  He — it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  repeat  the  language  that  he 
used :  it  is  bad  enough  to  have  heard  it.  I  be- 
lieve, Sir  Patrick,  but  for  the  two  men,  who  ran 
up  and  laid  hold  of  him,  tjiat  Hester  Dethridge 
would  have  seen  what  she  expected  to  see.  The 
change  in  him  was  so  frightful — even  to  me, 
well  as  I  thought  I  knew  him  in  his  fits  of  pas- 
sion— I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it.  One  of  the 
men  who  had^jestrained  him  was  almost  as  bru- 
tal, in  his  way.  He  declared,  in  the  foulest  lan- 
guage, that  if  Delamayn  had  a  fit,  he  would  lose 
the  race,  and  that  1  should  he  answerable  for  it. 
But  for  Mr.  Speedwell,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done.  He  came  forward  directly. 
'This  is  no  place  either  for  you,  or  for  me,'  he 
said — and  gave  me  his  arm,  and  led  me  back  to 
the  house.  Hester  Dethridge  met  us  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  lifted  her  hand  to  stop  me.  Mr.  Speed- 
well asked  her  what  she  wanted.  She  looked 
at  me,  and  then  looked  toward  the  garden,  and 
made  the  motion  of  striking  a  blow  with  her 
clenched  fist.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experi- 
ence of  her — I  hope  it  was  my  fancy — I  thought 
I  saw  her  smile.  Mr.  Speedwell  took  me  out. 
'  They  are  well  matched  in  that  house, '  he  said. 
'  The  woman  is  as  complete  a  savage  as  the 
men.'  The  carriage  which  I  had  seen  waiting 
at  the  door  was  his.  He  called  it  up.  and  po- 
litely offered  me  a  place  in  it.  I  said  I  would 
only  trespass  on  his  kindness  as  far  as  to  the 
railway  station.  While  we  were  talking,  Hester 
Dethridge  followed  us  to  the  door.  She  made 
the  same  motion  again  with  her  clenched  hand, 
and  looked  back  toward  the  garden — and  then 
looked  at  me,  and  nodded  her  head,  as  much  as 
to  say,  '  He  will  do  it  yet !'  No  words  can  de- 
scribe how  glad  I  was  to  see  the  last  of  her.  I 
hope  and  trust  I  shall  never  set  eyes  on  hex- 
again  !" 

"Did  you  hear  how  Mr.  Speedwell  came  to 
be  at  the  house?  Had  he  gone  of  his  own  ac- 
cord ?  or  had  he  been  sent  for?" 

"  He  had  been  sent  for.  I  ventured  to  speak 
to  him  about  the  persons  whom  I  had  seen  in 
the  garden.  Mr.  Speedwell  explained  even' 
thing  which  I  was  not  able  of  myself  to  under- 
stand, in  the  kindest  manner.  One  of  the  two 
strange  men  in  the  garden  was  the  trainer ;  the 
other  was  a  doctor,  whom  the  trainer  was  usual- 
ly in  the  habit  of  consulting.  It  seems  that  the 
real  reason  for  their  bringing  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
away  from  Scotland  when  they  did,  was  that  the 
trainer  was  uneasy,  and  wanted  to  be  near  Lon- 
don for  medical  advice.  The  doctor,  on  being 
consulted,  owned  that  he  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand the  symptoms  which  he  was  asked  to  treat. 
He  had  himself  fetched  the  great  surgeon  to  Ful- 
ham,  that  morning.  Mr.  Speedwell  abstained 


182 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


HE    GAVE    ME    HIS    A  KM,   AND    LED    ME    BACK    TO    THE    HOUSE. 


from  mentioning  that  he  had  foreseen  what  would 
happen,  at  Windygates.  All  he  said  was,  '  I  had 
met  Mr.  Delamayn  in  society,  and  I  felt  interest 
enough  in  the  case  to  pay  him  a  visit — with  what 
result,  you  have  seen  yourself.'" 

"  Did  he  tell  you  any  thing  about  Delamayn's 
health  ?" 

"  He  said  that  lie  had  questioned  the  doctor 
on  the  way  to  Fulham,  and  that  some  of  the  pa- 
tient's symptoms  indicated  serious  mischief. 
What  the  symptoms  were  I  did  not  hear.  Mr. 
Speedwell  only  spoke  of  changes  for  the  worse  in 
him  which  a  woman  would  be  likely  to  under- 
stand. At  one  time,  he  would  be  so  dull  and 
heedless  that  nothing  could  rouse  him.  At  an- 
other, he  flew  into  the  most  terrible  passions  with- 
out any  apparent  cause.  The  trainer  had  found 
it  almost  impossible  (in  Scotland)  to  keep  him 
to  the  right  diet ;  and  the  doctor  had  only  sanc- 
tioned taking  the  house  at  Fulham.  after  being 
first  satisfied,  not  only  of  the  convenience  of  the 
garden,  but  also  that  Hester  Dethridge  could  be 
thoroughly  trusted  as  a  cook.  With  her  help, 
they  had  placed  him  on  an  entirely  new  diet. 
But  they  had  found  an  unexpected  difficulty  even 
in  doing  that.  When  the  trainer  took  him  to  the 
new  lodgings,  it  turned  out  that  he  had  seen 
Hester  Dethridge  at  Windygates,  and  had  taken 
the  strongest  prejudice  against  her.  On  seeing 
her  again  at  Fulham,  he  appeared  to  be  abso- 
lutely terrified." 

"Terrified?    Why?" 

"Nobody  knows  why.  The  trainer  and  the 
doctor  together  could  only  prevent  his  leaving 
the  house,  by  threatening  to  throw  up  the  re- 
sponsibility of  preparing  him  for  the  race,  unless 
he  instantly  controlled  himself,  and  behaved  like 


a  man  instead  of  a  child.  Since  that  time,  he 
has  become  reconciled,  little  by  little,  to  his  new 
abode — partly  through  Hester  Dethridge's  cau- 
tion in  keeping  herself  always  out  of  his  way  ; 
and  partly  through  his  own  appreciation  of  the 
change  in  his  diet,  which  Hester's  skill  in  cook- 
ery has  enabled  the  doctor  to  make.  Mr.  Speed- 
well mentioned  some  things  which  I  have  forgot- 
ten. I  can  only  repeat,  Sir  Patrick,  the  result 
at  which  he  has  arrived  in  his  own  mind.  Com- 
ing from  a  man  of  his  authority,  the  opinion 
seems  to  me  to  be  startling  in  the  last  degree. 
If  Geoffrey  Delamayn  runs  in  the  race  on  Thurs- 
day next,  he  will  do  it  at  the  risk  of  his  life. " 

"  At  the  risk  of  dying  on  the  ground  ?" 

"Yes." 

Sir  Patrick's  face  became  thoughtful.  He 
waited  a  little  before  he  spoke  again. 

"We  have  not  wasted  our  time,"  he  said,  "in 
dwelling  on  what  happened  during  your  visit  to 
Fulham.  The  possibility  of  this  man's  death  sug- 
gests to  my  mind  serious  matter  for  considera- 
tion. It  is  very  desirable,  in  the  interests  of  my 
niece  and  her  husband,  that  I  should  be  able  to 
foresee,  if  I  can,  how  a  fatal  result  of  the  race 
might  affect  the  inquiry  which  is  to  be  held  on 
Saturday  next.  I  believe  you  may  be  able  to 
help  me  in  this." 

"You  have  only  to  tell  me  how,  Sir  Patrick." 

"  I  may  count  on  your  being  present  on  Satur- 
day ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"You  thoroughly  understand  that,  in  meeting 
Blanche,  you  will  meet  a  person  estranged  from 
you,  for  tiie  present — a  friend  and  sister  who  has 
ceased  (under  Lady  Lundie's  influence  mainly) 
to  feel  as  a  friend  and  sister  toward  you  now  ?" 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


183 


"  T  was  not  quite  unprepared,  Sir  Patrick,  to 
hear  that  Blanche  had  misjudged  me.  When  I 
wrote  my  letter  to  Mr.  Brinkworth,  I  warned 
him  as  delicately  as  I  could,  that  his  wife's  jeal- 
ousy might  be  very  easily  roused.  You  may  rely 
on  my  self-restraint,  no  matter  how  hardly  it  may 
be  tried.  Nothing  that  Blanche  can  say  or  do 
will  alter  my  grateful  remembrance  of  the  past. 
While  I  live,  I  love  her.  Let  that  assurance  quiet 
any  little  anxiety  that  you  may  have  felt  as  to 
my  conduct — and  tell  me  how  I  can  serve  those 
interests  which  I  have  at  heart  as  well  as  you." 

"You  can  serve  them,  Miss  Silvester,  in  this 
way.  You  can  make  me  acquainted  with  the 
position  in  which  you  stood  toward  Uelamayn  at 
the  time  when  you  went  to  the  Craig  Fernie 
inn." 

"  Put  any  questions  to  me  that  you  think  right, 
Sir  Patrick." 

"  You  mean  that?" 

"I  mean  it." 

' '  I  will  begin  by  recalling  something  which 
you  have  already  told  me.  Delamayn  has  prom- 
ised you  marriage — " 

"  Over  and  over  again  !" 

"  In  words  ?" 

"Yes." 

"In  writing?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  see  what  I  am  coming  to?" 

"Hardly  yet." 

"You  referred,  when  we  first  met  in  this 
room,  to  a  letter  which  you  recovered  from  Bish- 
opriggs,  at  Perth.  I  have  ascertained  from  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth  that  the  sheet  of  note-paper 
stolen  from  you  contained  two  letters.  One  was 
written  by  you  to  Delamayn — the  other  was  writ- 
ten by  Delamayn  to  you.  The  substance  of  this 
last  Arnold  remembered.  Your  letter  he  had 
not  read.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  Miss 
Silvester,  to  let  me  see  that  correspondence  be- 
fore we  part  to-day." 

Anne  made  no  answer.  She  sat  with  her 
clasped  hands  on  her  lap.  Her  eyes  looked  un- 
easily away  from  Sir  Patrick's  face,  for  the  first 
time. 

"  Will  it  not  be  enough,"  she  asked,  after  an 
interval,  "if  I  tell  you  the  substance  of  my  let- 
ter, without  showing  it  ?" 

"  It  will  not  be  enough,"  returned  Sir  Patrick, 
in  the  plainest  manner.  "  I  hinted — if  you  re- 
member— at  the  propriety  of  my  seeing  the  let- 
ter, when  you  first  mentioned  it ;  and  I  observed 
that  you  purposely  abstained  from  understanding 
me.  I  am  grieved  to  put  you,  on  this  occasion, 
to  a  painful  test.  But  if  you  are  to  help  me  at 
this  serious  crisis,  I  have  shown  you  the  way." 

Anne  rose  from  her  chair,  and  answered  by 
putting  the  letter  into  Sir  Patrick's  hands. 
"Remember  what  he  has  done,  since  I  wrote 
that,"  she  said.  "And  try  to  excuse  me,  if  I 
own  that  I  am  ashamed  to  show  it  to  you 
now. " 

With  those  words  she  walked  aside  to  the 
window.  She  stood  there,  with  her  hand  pressed 
on  her  breast,  looking  out  absently  on  the  murky 
London  view  of  house-roof  and  chimney,  while 
Sir  Patrick  opened  the  letter. 

It  is  necessary  to  the  right  appreciation  of 
events,  that  other  eyes  besides  Sir  Patrick's 
should  follow  the  brief  course  of  the  correspond- 
ence in  this  place. 


1.  From  Anne  Silvester  to  Geoffrey  Dflamnijn. 

"WINDY-GATES  HOUSE,  AUQUSt  12,  1S68. 

"GEOFFKEY  DELAMAYN, — I  have  waited  in 
the  hope  that  you  would  ride  over  from  your 
brother's  place,  and  see  me — and  I  have  waited 
in  vain.  Yonr  conduct  to  me  is  cruelty  itself; 
I  will  bear  it  no  longer.  Consider !  in  your  own 
interests,  consider — before  you  drive  the  miser- 
able woman  who  has  trusted  you  to  despair. 
You  have  promised  me  marriage  by  all  that  is 
sacred.  I  claim  your  promise.  I  insist  on  no- 
thing less  than  to  be  what  you  vowed  I  should 
be — what  I  have  waited  all  this  weary  time  to 
be — what  I  am,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  your 
wedded  wife.  Lady  Lundie  gives  a  lawn-party 
here  on  the  14th.  I  know  you  have  been  asked. 
I  expect  you  to  accept  her  invitation.  If  I  don't 
see  you,  I.  won't  answer  for  what  may  happen. 
My  mind  is  made  up  to  endure  this  suspense  no 
longer.  Oh,  Geoffrey,  remember  the  past !  Be 
faithful — be  just — to  your  loving  wife, 

"ANNE  SILVESTER." 

2.  From  Geoffrey  Delamayn  to  Anne  Silvester. 
"  DEAR  ANNE, — Just  called  to  London  to  my 
father.     They  have  telegraphed  him  in  a  bad 
way.    Stop  where  you  are,  and  I  will  write  you. 
Trust  the  bearer.     Upon  my  soul,  I'll  keep  my 
promise.     Your  loving  husband  that  is  to  be, 
"GEOFFREY  DELAMAYN. 

"  WlNDYGATES  HOTJSE,  Augt.  14,  4  P.M. 

"In  a  mortal  hurry.     The  train  starts  4.30." 

Sir  Patrick  read  the  correspondence  with 
breathless  attention  to  the  end.  At  the  last  lines 
of  the  last  letter  he  did  what  he  had  not  done 
for  twenty  years  past — he  sprang  to  his  feet  at  a 
bound,  and  he  crossed  a  room  without  the  help 
of  his  ivory  cane. 

Anne  started ;  and  turning  round  from  the 
window,  looked  at  him  in  silent  surprise.  He 
was  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion  ;  his 
face,  his  voice,  his  manner,  all  showed  it. 

"How  long  had  you  been  in  Scotland,  when 
you  wrote  this  ?"  He  pointed  to  Anne's  letter 
as  he  asked  the  question,  putting  it  so  eagerly 
that  he  stammered  over  the  first  words.  "  More 
than  three  weeks?"  he  added,  with  his  bright 
black  eyes  fixed  in  absorbing  interest  on  her  face. 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"You  can  refer  to  persons  who  have  seen 
you  ?" 

"Easily." 

He  turned  the  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  point- 
ed to  Geoffrey's  penciled  letter  on  the  fourth 
page. 

"  How  long  had  he  been  in  Scotland,  when  he 
wrote  this  ?  More  than  three  weeks,  too  ?" 

Anne  considered  for  a  moment. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  careful!"  said  Fir  Pat- 
rick. "You  don't  know  what  depends  on  this. 
If  your  memory  is  not  clear  about  it,  say  so." 

"My  memory  was  confused  for  a  moment. 
It  is  clear  again  now.  He  had  been  at  his  broth- 
er's in  Perthshire  three  weeks  before  he  wrote 
that.  And  before  he  went  to  Swanhaven,  he 
spent  three  or  four  days  in  the  valley  of  the  Esk." 

"  Are  you  sure  again  ?" 

"Quite  sure!" 


181 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  Do  you  know  of  any  one  who  saw  him  in  the 
valley  of  the  Esk  ?" 

"  I  know  of  a  person  who  took  a  note  to  him, 
from  me." 

"A  person  easily  found?" 

"  Quite  easily." 

Sir  Patrick  laid  aside  the  letter,  and  seized  in 
ungovernable  agitation  on  both  her  hands. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "The  whole  con- 
spiracy against  Arnold  Brinkworth  and  you 
falls  to  the  ground  before  that  correspondence. 
When  you  and  he  met  at  the  inn — " 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  her.  Her  hands 
were  beginning  to  tremble  in  his. 

"When  you  and  Arnold  Brinkworth  met  at 
the  inn,"  he  resumed,  "the  law  of  Scotland  had 
made  you  a  married  woman.  On  the  day,  and 
at  the  hour,  when  he  wrote  those  lines  at  the 
back  of  your  letter  to  him,  you  were  Geoffrey 
Delamayn's  wedded  wife  /" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  again. 

Without  a  word  in  reply,  without  the  slightest 
movement  in  her  from  head  to  foot,  she  looked 
back  at  him.  The  blank  stillness  of  horror  was 
in  her  face.  The  deadly  cold  of  horror  was  in 
her  hands. 

In  silence,  on  his  side,  Sir  Patrick  drew  back 
a  step,  with  a  faint  reflection  of  her  dismay  in 
his  face.  Married — to  the  villain  who  had  not 
hesitated  to  calumniate  the  woman  whom  he  had 
ruined,  and  then  to  cast  her  helpless  on  the 
world.  Married — to  the  traitor  who  had  not 
shrunk  from  betraying  Arnold's  trust  in  him,  and 
desolating  Arnold's  home.  Married — to  the  ruf- 
fian who  would  have  struck  her  that  morning,  if 
the  hands  of  his  own  friends  had  not  held  him 
back.  And  Sir  Patrick  had  never  thought  of 
it !  Absorbed  in  the  one  idea  of  Blanche's  fu- 
ture, he  had  never  thought  of  it,  till  that  horror- 
stricken  face  looked  at  him,  and  said,  Think  of 
my  future,  too ! 

He  came  back  to  her.  He  took  her  cold  hand 
once  more  in  his. 

"Forgive  me," he  said,  "for  thinking  first  of 
Blanche.'' 

Blanche's  name  seemed  to  rouse  her.  The 
life  came  back  to  her  face ;  the  tender  brightness 
began  to  shine  again  in  her  eyes.  He  saw  that 
he  might  venture  to  speak  more  plainly  still :  he 
went  on. 

' '  I  see  the  dreadful  sacrifice  as  you  see  it.  I 
ask  myself,  have  I  any  right,  has  Blanche  any 
right — " 

She  stopped  him  by  a  faint  pressure  of  his 
hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  softly,  "if  Blanche's  happi- 
ness depends  on  it." 


THIRTEENTH  SCENE.— FULHAM. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-FIFTH. 

THE    FOOT-RACE. 

A  SOLITARY  foreigner,  drifting  about  London, 
drifted  toward  Fulham  on  the  day  of  the  Foot- 
Race. 

Little  by  little,  he  found  himself  involved  in 
the  current  of  a  throng  of  impetuous  English  peo- 
ple, all  flowing  together  toward  one  given  point, 
and  all  decorated  alike  with  colors  of  two  prevail- 
ing hues — pink  and  yellow.  He  drifted  along 


with  the  stream  of  passengers  on  the  pavement 
(accompanied  by  a  stream  of  carriages  in  the 
road)  until  they  stopped  with  one  accord  at  a  gate 
— and  paid  admission-money  to  a  man  in  office— 
and  poured  into  a  great  open  space  of  ground 
which  looked  like  an  uncultivated  garden. 

Arrived  here,  the  foreign  visitor  opened  his 
eyes  in  wonder  at  the  scene  revealed  to  view. 
He  observed  thousands  of  people  assembled, 
composed  almost  exclusively  of  the  middle  and 
upper  classes  of  society.  They  were  congregated 
round  a  vast  inclosure ;  they  were  elevated  on 
amphitheatrical  wooden  stands ;  and  they  were 
perched  on  the  roofs  of  horseless  carriages,  drawn 
up  in  rows.  From  this  congregation  there  rose 
such  a  roar  of  eager  voices  as  he  had  never  heard 
yet  from  any  assembled  multitude  in  these  isl- 
ands. Predominating  among  the  cries,  he  de- 
tected one  everlasting  question.  It  began  with, 
"  Who  backs — ?"  and  it  ended  in  the  alternate 
pronouncing  of  two  British  names  unintelligible 
to  foreign  ears.  Seeing  these  extraordinary 
sights,  and  hearing  these  stirring  sounds,  he  ap- 
plied to  a  policeman  on  duty ;  and  said,  in  his 
best  producible  English,  "If  you  please,  Sir, 
what  is  this  ?" 

The  policeman  answered,  "North  against 
South — Sports." 

The  foreigner  was  informed,  but  not  satisfied. 
He  pointed  all  round  the  assembly  with  a  circu- 
lar sweep  of  his  hand ;  and  said,  "  Why  ?" 

The  policeman  declined  to  waste  words  on  a 
man  who  could  ask  such  a  question  as  that.  He 
lifted  a  large  purple  forefinger,  with  a  broad 
white  nail  at  the  end  of  it,  and  pointed  gravely 
to  a  printed  Bill,  posted  on  the  wall  behind  him. 
The  drifting  foreigner  drifted  to  the  Bill. 

After  reading  it  carefully,  from  top  to  bottom, 
he  consulted  a  polite  private  individual  near  at 
hand,  who  proved  to  be  far  more  communicative 
than  the  policeman.  The  result  on  his  mind,  as  a 
person  not  thoroughly  awakened  to  the  enormous 
national  importance  of  Athletic  Sports,  was 
much  as  follows : 

The  color  of  North  is  pink.  The  color  of 
South  is  yellow.  North  produces  fourteen  pink 
men,  and  South  produces  thirteen  yellow  men. 
The  meeting  of  pink  and  yellow  is  a  solemnity. 
The  solemnity  takes  its  rise  in  an  indomitable 
national  passion  for  hardening  the  arms  and 
legs,  by  throwing  hammers  and  cricket  -  balls 
with  the  first,  and  running  and  jumping  with  the 
second.  The  object  in  view  is  to  do  this  in  pub- 
lic rivalry.  The  ends  arrived  at  are  (physically) 
an  excessive  development  of  the  muscles,  pur- 
chased at  the  expense  of  an  excessive  strain  on 
the  heart  and  the  lungs — (morally),  glory  ;  con- 
ferred at  the  moment  by  the  public  applause ; 
confirmed  the  next  day  by  a  report  in  the  news- 
papers. Any  person  who  presumes  to  see  any 
physical  evil  involved  in  these  exercises  to  the 
men  who  practice  them,  or  any  moral  obstruc- 
tion in  the  exhibition  itself  to  those  civilizing  in- 
fluences on  which  the  true  greatness  of  all  nations 
depends,  is  a  person  without  a  biceps,  who  is 
simply  incomprehensible.  Muscular  England 
develops  itself,  and  takes  no  notice  of  him. 

The  foreigner  mixed  with  the  assembly,  and 
looked  more  closely  at  the  social  spectacle  around 
him. 

He  had  met  with  these  people  before.  He 
had  seen  them  (for  instance)  at  the  theatre,  and 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


185 


had  observed  their  manners  and  customs  with 
considerable  curiosity  and  surprise.  When  the 
curtain  was  down,  they  were  so  little  interested 
in  what  they  had  come  to  see,  that  they  had 
hardly  spirit  enough  to  speak  to  each  other  be- 
tween the  acts.  When  the  curtain  was  up,  if 
the  play  made  any  appeal  to  their  sympathy  with 
any  of  the  higher  and  nobler  emotions  of  human- 
ity, they  received  it  as  something  wearisome,  or 
sneered  at  it  as  something  absurd.  The  public 
feeling  of  the  countrymen  of  Shakspeare,  so  far 
as  they  represented  it,  recognized  but  two  duties 
in  the  dramatist — the  duty  of  making  them 
laugh,  and  the  duty  of  getting  it  over  soon.  The 
two  great  merits  of  a  stage  proprietor,  in  England 
(judging  by  the  rare  applause  of  his  cultivated 
customers),  consisted  in  spending  plenty  of  mon- 
ey on  his  scenery,  and  in  hiring  plenty  of  brazen- 
faced women  to  exhibit  their  bosoms  and  their 
legs.  Not  at  theatres  only;  but  among  other 
gatherings,  in  other  places,  the  foreigner  had  no- 
ticed the  same  stolid  languor  where  any  effort  was 
exacted  from  genteel  English  brains,  and  the  same 
stupid  contempt  where  any  appeal  was  made  to 
genteel  English  hearts.  Preserve  us  from  en- 
joying any  thing  but  jokes  and  scandal !  Pre- 
serve us  from  respecting  any  thing  but  rank  and 
money!  There  were  the  social  aspirations  of 
these  insular  ladies  and  gentlemen,  as  expressed 
under  other  circumstances,  and  as  betrayed 
amidst  other  scenes.  Here,  all  was  changed. 
Here  was  the  strong  feeling,  the  breathless  in- 
terest, the  hearty  enthusiasm,  not  visible  else- 
where. Here  were  the  superb  gentlemen  who 
were  too  weary  to  speak,  when  an  Ait  was  ad- 
dressing them,  shouting  themselves  hoarse  with 
burst  on  burst  of  genuine  applause.  Here  were 
the  fine  ladies  who  yawned  behind  their  fans, 
at  the  bare  idea  of  being  called  on  to  think  or  to 
feel,  waving  their  handkerchiefs  in  honest  de- 
light, and  actually  flushing  with  excitement 
through  their  powder  and  their  paint.  And  all 
for  what?  All  for  running  and  jumping — all 
for  throwing  hammers  and  balls. 

The  foreigner  looked  at  it,  and  tried,  as  a  cit- 
izen of  a  civilized  country,  to  understand  it.  He 
was  still  trying — when  there  occurred  a  pause  in 
the  performances. 

Certain  hurdles,  which  had  served  to  exhibit 
the  present  satisfactory  state  of  civilization  (in 
jumping)  among  the  upper  classes,  were  re- 
moved. The  privileged  persons  who  had  duties 
to  perform  within  the  inclosure,  looked  all  round 
it ;  and  disappeared  one  after  another.  A  great 
hush  of  expectation  pervaded  the  whole  assem- 
bly. Something  of  no  common  interest  and  im- 
portance was  evidently  about  to  take  place.  On 
a  sudden,  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  roar  of 
cheering  from  the  mob  in  the  road  outside  the 
grounds.  People  looked  at  each  other  excited- 
ly, and  said,  "One  of  them  has  come."  The 
silence  prevailed  again — and  was  a  second  time 
broken  by  another  roar  of  applause.  People 
nodded  to  each  other  with  an  air  of  relief  and 
said,  "Both  of  them  have  come."  Then  the 
great  hush  fell  on  the  crowd  once  more ;  and  all 
eyes  looked  toward  one  particular  point  of  the 
ground,  occupied  by  a  little  wooden  pavilion,, 
with  the  blinds  down  over  the  open  windows, 
and  the  door  closed. 

The  foreigner  was  deeply  impressed  by  the 
silent  expectation  of  the  great  throng  about  him. 
M 


1  He   felt   his   own   sympathies    stirred,   without 
j  knowing  why.    He  believed  himself  to  be  on  the 
point  of  understanding  the  English  people. 

Some  ceremony  of  grave  importance  was  evi- 
dently in  preparation.  Was  a  great  orator  going 
to  address  the  assembly  ?  Was  a  glorious  anni- 
versary to  be  commemorated  ?  Was  a  religious 
service  to  be  performed  ?  He  looked  round  him 
to  apply  for  information  once  more.  Two  gen- 
tlemen— who  contrasted  favorably,  so  far  as  re- 
finement of  manner  was  concerned,  with  most  of 
the  spectators  present — were  slowly  making  their 
way,  at  that  moment,  through  the  crowd  near  him. 
He  respectfully  asked  what  national  solemnity 
was  now  about  to  take  place.  They  informed 
him  that  a  pair  of  strong  young  men  were  going 
to  run  round  the  inclosure  for  a  given  number 
!  of  turns,  with  the  object  of  ascertaining  which 
could  run  the  fastest  of  the  two. 

The  foreigner  lifted  his  hands  and  eyes  to 

j  heaven.      Oh,   multifarious    Providence !    who 

I  would  have* suspected  that  the  infinite  diversities 

of  thy  creation  included  such  beings  as  these ! 

With  that  aspiration,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 

race-course,  and  left  the  place. 

On  his  way  out  of  the  grounds  he  had  occasion 
to  use  his  handkerchief,  and  found  that  it  was 
gone.  He  felt  next  for  his  purse.  His  purse 
was  missing  too.  When  he  was  back  again  in 
his  own  country,  intelligent  inquiries  were  ad- 
dressed to  him  on  the  subject  of  England.  He 
had  but  one  reply  to  give.  "  The  whole  nation 
is  a  mystery  to  me.  Of  all  the  English  people  I 
only  understand  the  English  thieves!" 

In  the  mean  time  the  two  gentlemen,  making 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  reached  a  wicket- 
gate  in  the  fence  which  surrounded  the  inclosure. 

Presenting  a  written  order  to  the  policeman  in 
charge  of  the  gate,  they  were  forthwith  admitted 
within  the  sacred  precincts.  The  closely  packed 
spectators,  regarding  them  with  mixed  feelings 
of  envy  and  curiosity,  wondered  who  they  might 
be.  Were  they  referees  appointed  to  act  at  the 
coming  race  ?  or  reporters  for  the  newspapers  ? 
or  commissioners  of  police  ?  They  were  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  They  were  only  Mr. 
Speedwell,  the  surgeon,  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

The  two  gentlemen  walked  into  the  centre  of 
the  inclosure,  and  looked  round  them. 

The  grass  on  which  they  were  standing  was 
girdled  by  a  broad  smooth  path,  composed  of 
finely-sifted  ashes  and  sand — and  this  again  was 
surrounded  by  the  fence  and  by  the  spectators 
ranked  behind  it.  Above  the  lines  thus  formed 
rose  on  one  side  the  amphitheatres  with  their 
tiers  of  crowded  benches,  and  on  the  other  the 
long  rows  of  carriages  with  the  sight-seers  inside 
and  out.  The  evening  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
the  light  and  shade  lay  together  in  grand  masses, 
the  varied  colors  of  objects  blended  softly  one 
with  the  other.  It  was  a  splendid  and  an  in- 
spiriting scene. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  from  the  rows  of  eager  faces 
all  round  him  to  his  friend  the  surgeon. 

"  Is  there  one  person  to  be  found  in  this  vast 
crowd,"  he  asked,  "who  has  come  to  see  the 
race  with  the  doubt  in  his  mind  which  has 
brought  us  to  see  it  ?" 

Mr.  Speedwell  shook  his  head.  "  Not  one  of 
them  knows  or  cares  what  the  struggle  may  cost 
the  men  who  engage  in  it. " 


186 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Sir  Patrick  looked  round  him  again.  "I  al- 
most wish  I  had  not  come  to  see  it,"  he  said. 
"If  this  wretched  man — " 

The  surgeon  interposed.  "  Don't  dwell  need- 
lessly, Sir  Patrick,  on  the  gloomy  view,"  he  re- 
joined. ' '  The  opinion  I  have  formed  has,  thus 
far,  no  positive  grounds  to  rest  on.  I  am  guess- 
ing rightly,  as  I  believe,  but  at  the  same  time  I 
am  guessing  in  the  dark.  Appearances  may 
have  misled  me.  There  may  be  reserves  of  vital 
force  in  Mr.  Delamayn's  constitution  which  I 
don't  suspect.*  I  am  here  to  learn  a  lesson — not 
to  see  a  prediction  fulfilled.  I  know  his  health 
is  broken,  and  I  believe  he  is  going  to  run  this 
race  at  his  own  proper  peril.  Don't  feel  too  sure 
beforehand  of  the  event.  The  event  may  prove 
me  to  be  wrong. " 

For  the  moment  Sir  Patrick  dropped  the  sub- 
ject. He  was  not  in  his  usual  spirits. 

Since  his  interview  with  Anne  had  satisfied 
him  that  she  was  Geoffrey's  lawful  wife,  the  con- 
viction had  inevitably  forced  itself  0"n  his  mind 
that  the  one  possible  chance  for  her  in  the  future 
was  the  chance  of  Geoffrey's  death.  Horrible  as 
it  was  to  him,  he  had  been  possessed  by  that  one 
idea — go  where  he  might,  do  what  he  might, 
struggle  as  he  might  to  force  his  thoughts  in 
other  directions.  He  looked  round  the  broad 
ashen  path  on  which  the  race  was  to  be  run, 
conscious  that  he  had  a  secret  interest  in  it  which 
it  was  unutterably  repugnant  to  him  to  feel.  He 
tried  to  resume  the  conversation  with  his  friend, 
and  to  lead  it  to  other  topics.  The  effort  was 
useless.  In  despite  of  himself,  he  returned  to 
the  one  fatal  subject  of  the  struggle  that  was  now 
close  at  hand. 

"  How  many  times  must  they  go  round  this  in- 
closure,''  he  inquired,  "before  the  race  is  ended?" 

Mr.  Speedwell  turned  toward  a  gentleman 
who  was  approaching  them  at  the  moment. 
"Here  is  somebody  coming  who  can  tell  us," 
he  said. 

"You  know  him?" 

"  He  is  one  of  my  patients." 

"  Who  is  he  ?" 

"  After  the  two  runners  he  is  the  most  import- 
ant personage  on  the  ground.  He  is  the  final 
authority — the  umpire  of  the  race. " 

The  person  thus  described  was  a  middle-aged 
man,  with  a  prematurely  wrinkled  face,  with 
prematurely  white  hair,  and  with  something  of  a 
military  look  about  him — brief  in  speech,  and 
quick  in  manner. 

"The  path  measures  four  hundred  and  forty 
yards  round,"  he  said,  when  the  surgeon  had  re- 
peated Sir  Patrick's  question  to  him.  "  In  plain- 
er words,  and  not  to  put  you  to  your  arithmetic, 
once  round  it  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Each  round 
is  called  a  'Lap.'  The  men  must  run  sixteen 
Laps  to  finish  the  race.  Not  to  put  von  to  your 
arithmetic  again,  they  must  run  four  miles — the 
longest  race  of  this  kind  which  it  is  customary  to 
attempt  at  Sports  like  these." 

"Professional  pedestrians  exceed  that  limit, 
do  they  not  ?" 

"Considerably — on  certain  occasions." 

"  Are  they  a  long-lived  race  ?" 

"Far  from  it.  They  are  exceptions  when 
they  live  to  be  old  men." 

Mr.  Speedwell  looked  at  Sir  Patrick.  Sir  Pat- 
rick put  a  question  to  the  umpire. 

"You  have  just  told  us,"  he  said,  "that  the 


two  young  men  who  appear  to-day  are  going  to 
run  the  longest  distance  yet  attempted  in  their 
experience.  Is  it  generally  thought,  by  persons 
who  understand  such  things,  that  they  are  both 
fit  to  bear  the  exertion  demanded  of  them  ?" 

"You  can  judge  for  yourself,  Sir.  Here  is 
one  of  them." 

He  pointed  toward  the  pavilion.  At  the  same 
moment  there  rose  a  mighty  clapping  of  hands 
from  the  great  throng  of  spectators.  Fleetwood, 
champion  of  the  North,  decorated  in  his  pink 
colors,  descended  the  pavilion  steps  and  walked 
into  the  arena. 

Young,  lithe,  and  elegant,  with  supple  strength 
expressed  in  every  movement  of  his  limbs,  with 
a  bright  smile  on  his  resolute  young  face,  the 
man  of  the  north  won  the  women's  hearts  at 
starting.  .  The  murmur  of  eager  talk  rose  among 
them  on  all  sides.  The  men  were  quieter — es- 
pecially the  men  who  understood  the  subject. 
It  was  a  serious  question  with  these  experts 
whether  Fleetwood  was  not  "a  little  too  fine." 
Superbly  trained,  it  was  admitted — but,  possibly, 
a  little  orer-trained  for  a  four-mile  race. 

The  northern  hero  was  followed  into  the  in- 
closure  by  his  friends  and  backers,  and  by  his 
trainer.  This  last  carried  a  tin  can  in  his  hand. 
"Cold  water,"  the  umpire  explained.  "If  he 
gets  exhausted,  his  trainer  will  pick  him  up  with 
a  dash  of  it  as  he  goes  by. " 

A  new  burst  of  hand-clapping  rattled  all  round 
the  arena.  Delamayn,  champion  of  the  South, 
decorated  in-  his  yellow  colors,  presented  himself 
to  the  public  view. 

The  immense  hum  of  voices  rose  louder  and 
louder  as  he  walked  into  the  centre  of  the  great 
green  space.  Surprise  at  the  extraordinary  con- 
trast between  the  two  men  was  the  prevalent 
emotion  of  the  moment.  Geoffrey  was  more 
than  a  head  taller  than  his  antagonist,  and  broad- 
er in  full  proportion.  The  women  who  had  been 
charmed  with  the  easy  gait  and  confident  smile 
of  Fleetwood,  were  all  more  or  less  painfully  im- 
pressed by  the  sullen  strength  of  the  southern 
man,  as  he  passed  before  them  slowly,  with  his 
head  down  and  his  brows  knit,  deaf  to  the  ap- 
plause showered  on  him,  reckless  of  the  eyes  that 
looked  at  him ;  speaking  to  nobody ;  concen- 
trated in  himself;  biding  his  time.  He  held  the 
men  who  understood  the  subject  breathless  with 
interest.  There  it  was!  the  famous  "staying 
power"  that  was  to  endure  in  the  last  terrible 
half-mile  of  the  race,  when  the  nimble  and  jaunty 
Fleetwood  was  run  off  his  legs.  Whispers  had 
been  spread  abroad  hinting  at  something  which 
had  gone  wrong  with  Delamayn  in  his  training. 
And  now  that  all  eyes  could  judge  him,  his  ap- 
pearance suggested  criticism  in  some  quarters. 
It  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  the  criticism 
passed  on  his  antagonist.  The  doubt  as  to 
Delamayn  was  whether  he  had  been  sufficiently 
trained.  Still  the  solid  strength  of  the  man,  the 
slow,  panther-like  smoothness  of  his  movements 
— and,  above  all,  his  great  reputation  in  the 
world  of  muscle  and  sport — had  their  effect. 
The  betting  which,  with  occasional  fluctuations, 
had  held  steadily  in  his  favor  thus  far,  held,  now 
that  he  was  publicly  seen,  steadily  in  his  favor 
still.  "Fleetwood  for  shorter  distances,  if  you 
like ;  but  Delamayn  for  a  four-mile  race. " 

"Do  you  think  he  sees  us?"  whispered  Sir 
Patrick  to  the  surgeon. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


187 


**  He  sees  nobody. " 

"Can  you  judge  of  the  condition  he  is  in,  at 
this  distance  ?" 

"  He  has  twice  the  muscular  strength  of  the 
other  man.  His  trunk  and  limbs  are  magnifi- 
cent. It  is  useless  to  ask  me  more  than  that 
about  his  condition.  We  are  too  far  from  him 
to  see  his  face  plainly." 

The  conversation  among  the  audience  began 
to  flag  again;  and  the  silent  expectation  set  in 
among  them  once  more.  One  by  one,  the  dif- 
ferent persons  officially  connected  with  the  race 
gathered  together  on  the  grass.  The  trainer 
Perry  was  among  them,  with  his  can  of  water  in 
his  hand,  in  anxious  whispering  conversation 
with  his  principal — giving  him  the  last  words  of 
advice  before  the  start.  The  trainer's  doctor, 
leaving  them  together,  came  up  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  his  illustrious  colleague. 

"How  has  he  got  on  since  I  was  at  Fulham?" 
asked  Mr.  Speedwell. 

"First-rate,  Sir!  It  was  one  of  his  bad  days 
when  you  saw  him.  He  has  done  wonders  in 
the  last  eight-and-forty  hours." 

"  Is  he  going  to  win  the  race?" 

Privately  the  doctor  had  done  what  Perry 
had  done  before  him — he  had  backed  Geoffrey's 
antagonist.  Publicly  he  was  true  to  his  coloi-s. 
He  cast  a  disparaging  look  at  Fleetwood — and 
answered  Yes,  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

At  that  point,  the  conversation  was  suspended 
by  a  sudden  movement  in  the  inclosure.  The 
runners  were  on  their  way  to  the  starting-place. 
The  moment  of  the  race  had  come. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  two  men  waited — 
each  with  his  foot  touching  the  mark.  The  fir- 
ing of  a  pistol  gave  the  signal  for  the  start.  At 
the  instant  when  the  report  sounded  they  were  off. 
Fleetwood  at  once  took  the  lead ;  Delamayn 
following,  at  from  two  to  three  yards  behind  him. 
In  that  order,  they  ran  the  first  round,  the  sec- 
ond, and  the  third — both  reserving  their  strength ; 
both  watched  with  breathless  interest  by  every 
soul  in  the  place.  The  trainers,  with  their  cans 
in  their  hands,  ran  backward  and  forward  over 
the  grass,  meeting  their  men  at  certain  points, 
and  eying  them  narrowly,  in  silence.  The  offi- 
cial persons  stood  together  in  a  group ;  their  eyes 
following  the  runners  round  and  round  with  the 
closest  attention.  The  trainer's  doctor,  still  at- 
tached to  his  illustrious  colleague,  offered  the 
necessary  explanations  to  Mr.  Speedwell  and  his 
friend. 

"  Nothing  much  to  see  for  the  first  mile,  Sir, 
except  the  '  style'  of  the  two  men. " 

"  You  mean  they  are  not  really  exerting  them- 
selves yet  ?" 

"No.  Getting  their  wind,  and  feeling  their 
legs.  Pretty  runner,  Fleetwood — if  you  notice, 
Sir?  Gets  his  legs  a  trifle  better  in  front,  and 
hardly  lifts  his  heels  quite  so  high  as  our  man. 
His  action's  the  best  of  the  two ;  I  grant  that. 
But  just  look,  as  they  come  by,  which  keeps  the 
straightest  line.  There's  where  Delamayn  has 
him !  It's  a  steadier,  stronger,  truer  pace ;  and 
you'll  see  it  tell  when  they're  half-way  through. " 
So,  for  the  first  three  rounds,  the  doctor  expati- 
ated on  the  two  contrasted  "styles" — in  terms 
mercifully  adapted  to  the  comprehension  of  per- 
sons unacquainted  with  the  language  of  the  run- 
ning ring. 


At  the  fourth  round — in  other  words,  at  the 
round  which  completed  the  first  mile,  the  first 
change  in  the  relative  position  of  the  runners 
occurred.  Delamayn  suddenly  dashed  to  the 
Front.  Fleetwood  smiled  as  the  other  passed 
him.  Delamayn  held  the  lead  till  they  were 
half-way  through  the  fifth  round — when  Fleet- 
wood,  at  a  hint  from  his  trainer,  forced  the  pace. 
He  lightly  passed  Delamayn  in  an  instant ;  and 
led  again  to  the  completion  of  the  sixth,  round. 
At  the  opening  of  the  seventh,  Delamayn  forced 
the  pace  on  his  side.  For  a  few  moments,  they 
ran  exactly  abreast.  Then  Delamayn  drew 
away  inch  by  inch;  and  recovered  the  lead. 
The  first  burst  of  applause  (led  by  the  south) 
rang  out,  as  the  big  man  beat  Fleetwood  at  his 
own  tactics,  and  headed  him  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment when  the  race  was  nearly  half  run. 

"It  begins  to  look  as  if  Delamayn  was  going 
to  win!"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

The  trainer's  doctor  forgot  himself.  Infected 
by  the  rising  excitement  of  every  body  about 
him,  he  let  out  the  truth. 

"Wait  a  bit!"  he  said.  " Fleetwood  has  got 
directions  to  let  him  pass — Fleetwood  is  waiting 
to  see  what  he  can  do. " 

"  Cunning,  you  see,  Sir  Patrick,  is  one  of  the 
elements  in  a  manly  sport, "  said  Mr.  Speedwell, 
quietly. 

At  the  end  of  the  seventh  round,  Fleetwood 
proved  the  doctor  to  be  right.  He  shot  past 
Delamayn  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  At  the 
end  of  the  eight  round,  he  was  leading  by  two 
yards.  Half  the  race  had  then  been  run.  Time, 
ten  minutes  and  thirty-three  seconds. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  ninth  round,  the  pace 
slackened  a  little ;  and  Delamayn  was  in  front 
again.  He  kept  ahead,  until  the  opening  of  the 
eleventh  round.  At  that  point,  Fleetwood  flung 
up  one  hand  in  the  air  with  a  gesture  of  triumph ; 
and  bounded  past  Delamayn  with  a  shout  of 
"  Hooray  for  the  North !"  The  shout  was  ech- 
oed by  the  spectators.  In  proportion  as  the  ex- 
ertion began  to  tell  upon  the  men,  so  the  excite- 
ment steadily  rose  among  the  people  looking  at 
them. 

At  the  twelfth  round,  Fleetwood  was  leading 
by  six  yards.  Cries  of  triumph  rose  among  the 
adherents  of  the  north,  met  by  counter-cries  of 
defiance  from  the  south.  At  the  next  turn  Dela- 
mayn resolutely  lessened  the  distance  between 
his  antagonist  and  himself.  At  the  opening  of 
the  fourteenth  round,  they  were  coming  side  by 
side.  A  few  yards  more,  and  Delamayn  was  in 
front  again,  amidst  a  roar  of  applause  from  the 
whole  public  voice.  Yet  a  few  yards  further, 
and  Fleetwood  neared  him ;  passed  him  ;  dropped 
behind  again  ;  led  again  ;  and  was  passed  again 
at  the  end  of  the  round.  The  excitement  rose 
to  its  highest  pitch,  as  the  runners-^-gasping  for 
breath ;  with  dark-flushed  faces,  and  heaving 
breasts — alternately  passed  and  repassed  each 
other.  Oaths  were  heard  now  as  well  as  cheers. 
Women  turned  pale,  and  men  set  their  teeth,  as 
the  last  round  but  one  began. 

At  the  opening  of  it,  Delamayn  was  still  in 
advance.  Before  six  yards  more  had  been  cov- 
ered, Fleetwood  betrayed  the  purpose  of  his  run- 
ning in  the  previous  round,  and  electrified  the 
whole  assembly,  by  dashing  past  his  antagonist 
— for  the  first  time  in  the  race  at  the  top  of  his 
speed.  Every  body  present  could  see,  now,  that 


188 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"EVEKY  UODV  WAITED,  WITH  THEIK  EYES  KIVETED  ON  THE  SUKUEON'S  HAND." 


Delamayn  had  been  allowed  to  lead  on  suffer- 
ance— had  been  dextrously  drawn  on  to  put  out 
his  whole  power — and  had  then,  and  not  till 
.  then,  been  seriously  deprived  of  the  lead.  He 
made  another  effort,  with  a  desperate  resolution 
that  roused  the  public  enthusiasm  to  frenzy. 
While  the  voices  were  roaring;  while  the  hats 
and  handkerchiefs  were  waving  round  the  course ; 
while  the  actual  event  of  the  race  was,  for  one 
supreme  moment,  still  in  doubt — Mr.  Speedwell 
caught  Sir  Patrick  by  the  arm. 

"  Prepare  yourself!"  he  whispered.  "  It's  all 
over." 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  Delamayn  swerved 
on  the  path.  His  trainer  dashed  water  over  him. 
He  rallied,  and  ran  another  step  or  two — swerved 
again — staggered — lifted  his  arm  to  his  mouth 
with  a  hoarse  cry  of  rage — fastened  his  own 
teeth  in  his  flesh  like  a  wild  beast — and  fell 
senseless  on  the  course. 

A  Babel  of  sounds  arose.  The  cries  of  alarm 
in  some  places,  mingling  with  the  shouts  of  tri- 
umph from  the  backers  of  Fleetwood  in  others — 
as  their  man  ran  lightly  on  to  win  the  now  un- 
contested  race.  Not  the  inclosure  only,  but  the 
course  itself  was  invaded  by  the  crowd.  In  the 
midst  of  the  tumult  the  fallen  man  was  drawn 
on  to  the  grass — with  Mr.  Speedwell  and  the 
trainer's  doctor  in  attendance  on  him.  At  the 
terrible  moment  when  the  surgeon  laid  his  hand 
on  the  heart,  Fleetwood  passed  the  spot — a  pas- 
sage being  forced  for  him  through  the  people  by 
his  friends  and  the  police — running  the  sixteenth 
and  last  round  of  the  race. 

Had  the  beaten  man  fainted  under  it,  or  had 
he  died  under  it  ?  Every  body  waited,  with  their 
eyes  riveted  on  the  surgeon's  hand. 


The  surgeon  looked  up  from  him,  and  called 
for  water  to  throw  over  his  face,  for  brandy  to 
put  into  his  mouth.  He  was  coming  to  life 
again  —  he  had  survived  the  race.  The  last 
shout  of  applause  which  hailed  Fleetwood's  vic- 
tory rang  out  as  they  lifted  him  from  the  ground 
to  carry  him  to  the  pavilion.  Sir  Patrick  (ad- 
mitted at  Mr.  Speedwell's  request)  was  the  one 
stranger  allowed  to  pass  the  door.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  ascending  the  steps,  some  one 
touched  his  arm.  It  was  Captain  Newenden. 

"  Do  the  doctors  answer  for  his  life  ?"  asked 
the  captain.  "  I  can't  get  my  niece  to  leave  the 
ground  till  she  is  satisfied  of  that." 

Mr.  Speedwell  heard  the  question,  and  replied 
to  it  briefly  from  the  top  of  the  pavilion  steps. 

"For  the  present — yes,"  he  said. 

The  captain  thanked  him,  and  disappeared. 

They  entered  the  pavilion.  The  necessary  re- 
storative measures  were  taken  under  Mr.  Speed- 
well's directions.  There  the  conquered  athlete 
lay :  outwardly  an  inert  mass  of  strength,  formi- 
dable to  look  at,  even  in  its  fall;  inwardly,  a 
weaker  creature,  in  all  that  constitutes  vital 
force,  than  the  fly  that  buzzed  on  the  window- 
pane.  By  slow  degrees  the  fluttering  life  came 
back.  The  sun  was  setting ;  and  the  evening 
light  was  beginning  to  fail.  Mr.  Speedwell  beck- 
oned to  Perry  to  follow  him  into  an  unoccupied 
corner  of  the  room. 

"In  half  an  hour  or  less  he  will  be  well 
enough  to  be  taken  home.  Where  are  his 
friends  ?  He  has  a  brother — hasn't  he  ?" 

"His  brother's  in  Scotland,  Sir." 

"His  father?" 

Perry  scratched  his  head.  "From  all  I  hear, 
Sir,  he  and  his  father  don't  agree." 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


189 


Mr.  Speedwell  applied  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  of  his  family  af- 
fairs ?" 

"  Very  little.  I  believe  what  the  man  has 
told  you  to  be  the  truth." 

"  Is  his  mother  living?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  write  to  her  myself.  In  the  mean 
time,  somebody  must  take  him  home.  He"  has 
plenty  of  friends  here.  Where  are  they  ?" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  as  he  spoke.  A 
throng  of  people  had  gathered  round  the  pavil- 
ion, waiting  to  hear  the  latest  news.  Mr.  Speed- 
well directed  Perry  to  go  out  and  search  among 
them  for  any  friends  of  his  employer  whom  he 
might  know  by  sight.  Perry  hesitated,  and 
scratched  his  head  for  the  second  time. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  asked  the  sur- 
geon, sharply.  "  You  know  his  friends  by  sight, 
don't  you  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  find  them  outside," 
said  Perry. 

"Why  not?" 

"They  backed  him  heavily,  Sir — and  they 
have  all  lost." 

Deaf  to  this  unanswerable  reason  for  the  ab- 
sence of  friends,  Mr.  Speedwell  insisted  on  send- 
ing Perry  out  to  search  among  the  persons  who 
composed  the  crowd.  The  trainer  returned  with 
his  report.  "  You  were  right,  Sir.  There  are 
some  of  his  friends  outside.  They  want  to  see 
him. " 

"  Let  two  or  three  of  them  in." 

Three  came  in.  They  stared  at  him.  They 
uttered  brief  expressions  of  pity  in  slang.  They 
said  to  Mr.  Speedwell,  "  We  wanted  to  see  him. 
What  is  it — eh  ?" 

"It's  a  break-down  in  his  health." 

"Bad  training?" 

"Athletic  Sports." 

"Oh!     Thank  you.     Good-evening." 

Mr.  Speedwell's  answer  drove  them  out  like  a 
flock  of  sheep  before  a  dog.  There  was  not  even 
time  to  put  the  question  to  them  as  to  who  was 
to  take  him  home. 

"  I'll  look  after  him,  Sir,"  said  Perry.  "  You 
can  trust  me." 

"I'll  go  too,"  added  the  trainer's  doctor; 
"  and  see  him  littered  down  for  the  night." 

(The  only  two  men  who  had  "hedged"  their 
bets,  by  privately  backing  his  opponent,  were  also 
the  only  two  men  who  volunteered  to  take  him 
home!) 

They  went  back  to  the  sofa  on  which  he  was 
lying.  His  bloodshot  eyes  were  rolling  heavily 
and  vacantly  about  him,  on  the  search  for  some- 
thing. They  rested  on  the  doctor — and  looked 
away  again.  They  turned  to  Mr.  Speedwell — 
and  stopped,  riveted  on  his  face.  The  surgeon 
bent  over  him,  and  said,  "  What  is  it?" 

He  answered  with  a  thick  accent  and  laboring 
breath — uttering  a  word  at  a  time :  "  Shall — I — 
die?" 

"I  hope  not." 

"Sure?" 

"No." 

He  looked  round  him  again.  This  time  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  trainer.  Perry  came  forward. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Sir?" 

The  reply  came  slowly  as  before.  "My — 
coat — pocket. " 

"This  one,  Sir?" 


"No." 

"This?" 

"Yes.     Book." 

The  trainer  felt  in  the  pocket,  and  produced 
a  betting-book. 

"  What's  to  be  done  with  this.  Sir?" 

"Read." 

The  trainer  held  the  book  before  him ;  open 
at  the  last  two  pages  on  which  entries  had  been 
made.  He  rolled  his  head  impatiently  from  side 
to  side  of  the  sofa  pillow.  It  was  plain  that  he 
was  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to 
read  what  he  had  written. 

"  Shall  I  read  for  you,  Sir?" 

' '  Yes. " 

The  trainer  read  three  entries,  one'  after  an- 
other, without  result ;  they  had  all  been  honest- 
ly settled.  At  the  fourth  the  prostrate  man 
said,  "Stop!"  This  was  the  first  of  the  entries 
which  still  depended  on  a  future  event.  It  re- 
corded the  wager  laid  at  Windygates,  when  Geof- 
frey had  backed  himself  (in  defiance  of  the  sur- 
geon's opinion)  to  row  in  the  University  boat- 
race  next  spring' — and  had  forced  Arnold  Brink- 
worth  to  bet  against  him. 

"  Well,  Sir  ?    What's  to  be  done  about  this  ?" 

He  collected  his  strength  for  the  effort ;  and 
answered  by  a  word  at  a  time. 

"Write — brother — Julius.  Pay — Arnold — 
wins." 

His  lifted  hand,  solemnly  emphasizing  what 
he  said,  .dropped  at  his  side.  He  closed  his 
eyes;  and  fell  into  a  heavy  stertorous  sleep. 
Give  him  his  due.  Scoundrel  as  he  was,  give 
him  his  due.  The  awful  moment,  when  his  life 
was  trembling  in  the  balance,  found  him  true  to 
the  last  living  faith  left  among  the  men  of  his 
tribe  and  time — the  faith  of  the  betting-book. 

Sir  Patrick  and  Mr.  Speedwell  quitted  the 
race -ground  together;  Geoffrey  having  been 
previously  removed  to  his  lodgings  hard  by. 
They  met  Arnold  Brinkworth  at  the  gate.  He 
had,  by  his  own  desire,  kept  out  of  view  among 
the  crowd;  and  he  decided  on  walking  back 
by  himself.  The  separation  from  Blanche  had 
changed  him  in  all  his  habits.  He  asked  but 
two  favors  during  the  interval  which  was  to 
elapse  before  he  saw  his  wife  again — to  be  al- 
lowed to  bear  it  in  his  own  way,  and  to  be  left 
alone. 

Relieved  of  the  oppression  which  had  kept  him 
silent  while'  the  race  was  in  progress,  Sir  Pat- 
rick put  a  question  to  the  surgeon  as  they  drove 
home,  which  had  been  in  his  mind  from  the  mo- 
ment when  Geoffrey  had  lost  the  day. 

"  I  hardly  understand  the  anxiety  yon  showed 
about  Delamayn,"  he  said,  "when  you  found 
that  he  had  only  fainted  under  the  fatigue. 
Was  it  something  more  than  a  common  fainting 
fit?" 

"  It  is  useless  to  conceal  it  now,"  replied  Mr. 
Speedwell.  "  He  has  had  a  narrow  escape  from 
a  paralytic  stroke. " 

"Was  that  what  you  dreaded  when  you  spoke 
to  him  at  Windygates  ?" 

"That  was  what  I  saw  in  his  face  when  I 
gave  him  the  warning.  I  was  right,  so  far.  I 
was  wrong  in  my  estimate  of  the  reserve  of  vital 
power  left  in  him.  When  he  dropped  on  the 
race-cpurse,  I  firmly  believed  we  should  find 
him  a  dead  man." 


J90 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"Is  it  hereditary  paralysis ?  His  father's  last 
illness  was  of  that  sort. " 

Mr.  Speedwell  smiled.  "  Hereditary  paraly- 
sis?" he  repeated.  "  Why  the  man  is  (natural- 
ly) a  phenomenon  of  health  and  strength — in  the 
prime  of  his  life.  Hereditary  paralysis  might 
have  found  him  out  thirty  years  hence.  His  row- 
ing and  his  running,  for  the  last  four  years,  are 
alone  answerable  for  what  has  happened  to-day." 

Sir  Patrick  ventured  on  a  suggestion. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "with  your  name  to  com- 
pel attention  to  it,  you  ought  to  make  this  pub- 
lic— as  a  warning  to  others  ?" 

"  It  would  be  quite  useless.  Delamayn  is  far 
from  being  the  first  man  who  has  dropped  at 
foot-racing,  under  the  cruel  stress  laid  on  the 
vital  organs.  The  public  have  a  happy  knack 
of  forgetting  these  accidents.  They  would  be ! 
quite  satisfied  when  they  found  the  other  man 
(who  happens  to  have  got  through  it)  produced 
as  a  sufficient  answer  to  me." 

Anne  Silvester's  future  was  still  dwelling  on 
Sir  Patrick's  mind.  His  next  inquiry  related  to 
the  serious  subject  of  Geoffrey's  prospect  of  re- 
covery in  the  time  to  come. 

"He  will  never  recover,"  said  Mr.  Speedwell. 
"  Paralysis  is  hanging  over  him.  How  long  he 
may  live  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say.  Much 
depends  on  himself.  In  his  condition,  any  new 
imprudence,  any  violent  emotion,  may  kill  him 
at  a  moment's  notice. " 

"If  no  accident  happens,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
"will  he  be  sufficiently  himself  again  to  leave 
his  bed  and  go  out  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"He  has  an  appointment  that  I  know  of  for 
Saturday  next.  Is  it  likely  that  he  will  be  able 
to  keep  it  ?" 

"Quite  likely." 

Sir  Patrick  said  no  more.  Anne's  face  was 
before  him  again  at  the  memorable  moment  when 
he  had  told  her  that  she  was  Geoffrey's  wife. 


FOURTEENTH  SCENE.— PORTLAND  PLACE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SIXTH. 

A   SCOTCH   MARRIAGE. 

IT  was  Saturday,  the  third  of  October  —  the 
day  on  which  the  assertion  of  Arnold's  marriage 
to  Anne  Silvester  was  to  be  put  to  the  proof. 

Toward  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Blanche 
and  her  step-mother  entered  the  drawing-room 
of  Lady  Lundie's  town  house  in  Portland  Place. 

Since  the  previous  evening  the  weather  had 
altered  for  the  worse.  The  rain,  which  had  set 
in  from  an  early  hour  that  morning,  still  fell. 
Viewed  from  the  drawing-room  windows,  the 
desolation  of  Portland  Place  in  the  dead  season 
wore  its  aspect  of  deepest  gloom.  The  dreary 
opposite  houses  were  all  shut  up  ;  the  black  mud 
was  inches  deep  in  the  roadway ;  the  soot,  float- 
ing in  tiny  black  particles,  mixed  with  the  falling 
rain,  and  heightened  the  dirty  obscurity  of  the 
rising  mist.  Foot-passengers  and  vehicles,  suc- 
ceeding each  other  at  rare  intervals,  left  great 
gaps  of  silence  absolutely  uninterrupted  by  sound. 
Even  the  grinders  of  organs  were  mute ;  and  the 
wandering  dogs  of  the  street  were  too  wet  to 
bark.  Looking  back  from  the  view  out  of  Lady 
Lundie's  state  windows  to  the  view  in  Lady  Lun- 


die's state  room,  the  melancholy  that  reigned 
without  was  more  than  matched  by  the  melan- 
choly that  reigned  within.  The  house  had  been 
shut  up  for  the  season :  it  had  not  been  consid- 
ered necessary,  during  its  mistress's  brief  visit, 
to  disturb  the  existing  state  of  things.  Cover- 
ings of  dim  brown  hue  shrouded  the  furniture. 
The  chandeliers  hung  invisible  in  enormous  bags. 
The  silent  clocks  hibernated  under  extinguish- 
ers dropped  over  them  two  months  since.  The 
tables,  drawn  up  in  corners — loaded  with  orna- 
ments at  other  times — had  nothing  but  pen,  ink, 
and  paper  (suggestive  of  the  coming  proceedings) 
placed  on  them  now.  The  smell  of  the  house 
was  musty ;  the  voice  of  the  house  was  still.  One 
melancholy  maid  haunted  the  bedrooms  up  stairs, 
like  a  ghost.  One  melancholy  man,  appointed  to 
admit  the  visitors,  sat  solitary  in  the  lower  re- 
gions— the  last'Of  the  flunkies,  mouldering  in  an 
extinct  servants'  hall.  Not  a  word  passed,  in 
the  drawing-room,  between  Lady  Lundie  and 
Blanche.  Each  waited  the  appearance  of  the 
persons  concerned  in  the  coming  inquiry,  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  thoughts.  Their  situation  at 
the  moment  was  a  solemn  burlesque  of  the  situa- 
tion of  two  ladies  who  are  giving  an  evening 
party,  and  who  are  waiting  to  receive  their 
guests.  Did  neither  of  them  see  this?  Or, 
seeing  it,  did  they  shrink  from  acknowledging 
it  ?  In  similar  positions,  who  does  not  shrink  ? 
The  occasions  are  many  on  which  we  have  ex- 
cellent reason  to  laugh  when  the  tears  are  in 
our  eyes ;  but  only  children  are  bold  enough  to 
follow  the  impulse.  So  strangely,  in  human  ex- 
istence, does  the  mockery  of  what  is  serious  min- 
gle with  the  serious  reality  itself,  that  nothing 
but  our  own  self-respect  preserves  our  gravity  at 
some  of  the  most  important  emergencies  in  our 
lives.  The  two  ladies  waited  the  coming  ordeal 
together  gravely,  as  became  the  occasion.  The 
silent  maid  flitted  noiseless  up  stairs.  The  silent 
man  waited  motionless  in  the  lower  regions. 
Outside,  the  street  was  a  desert.  Inside,  the 
house  was  a  tomb. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  hour.     Two. 
At  the  same  moment  the  first  of  the  persons 
concerned  in  the  investigation  arrived. 

Lady  Lundie  waited  composedly  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  drawing-room  door.  Blanche  started, 
and  trembled.  Was  it  Arnold  ?  Was  it  Anne  ? 
The  door  opened — and  Blanche  drew  a  breath 
of  relief.  The  first  arrival  was  only  Lady  Lun- 
die's solicitor — invited  to  attend  the  proceedings 
on  her  ladyship's  behalf.  He  was  one  of  that 
large  class  of  purely  mechanical  and  perfectly 
mediocre  persons  connected  with  the  practice  of 
the  law  who  will  probably,  in  a  more  advanced 
state  of  science,  be  superseded  by  machinery. 
He  made  himself  useful  in  altering  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  tables  and  chairs,  so  as  to  keep  the 
contending  parties  effectually  separated  from 
each  other.  He  also  entreated  Lady  Lundie  to 
bear  in  mind  that  he  knew  nothing  of  Scotch 
law,  and  that  he  was  there  in  the  capacity  of 
friend  only.  This  done,  he  sat  down,  and  looked 
out  with  silent  interest  at  the  rain — as  if  it  was 
an  operation  of  Nature  which  he  had  never  had 
an  opportunity  of  inspecting  before. 

The  next  knock  at  the  door  heralded  the  ar- 
rival of  a  visitor  of  a  totally  different  order.  The 
melancholy  man-servant  announced  Captain 
Newenden. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


191 


Possibly,  in  deference  to  the  occasion,  possi- 
bly, in  defiance  of  the  weather,  the  captain  had 
taken  another  backward  step  toward  the  days  of 
his  youth.  He  was  painted  and  padded,  wigged 
and  dressed,  to  represent  the  abstract  idea  of  a 
male  human  being  of  five-and-twenty  in  robust 
health.  There  might  have  been  a  little  stiffness 
in  the  region  of  the  waist,  and  a  slight  want  of 
firmness  in  the  eyelid  and  the  chin.  Otherwise 
there  was  the  fiction  of  five-and-twenty,  founded 
in  appearance  on  the  fact  of  five-and-thirty — 
with  the  truth  invisible  behind  it,  counting  sev- 
enty years !  Wearing  a  flower  in  his  button- 
hole, and  carrying  a  jaunty  little  cane  in  his 
hand — brisk,  rosy,  smiling,  perfumed — the  cap- 
tain's appearance  brightened  the  dreary  room. 
It  was  pleasantly  suggestive  of  a  morning  visit 
from  an  idle  young  man.  He  appeared  to  be  a 
little  surprised  to  find  Blanche  present  on  the 
scene  of  approaching  conflict.  Lady  Lundie 
thought  it  due  to  herself  to  explain.  "  My  step- 
daughter is  here  in  direct  defiance  of  my  en- 
treaties and  my  advice.  Persons  may  present 
themselves  whom  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  improper 
she  should  see.  Revelations  will  take  place 
which  no  young  woman,  in  her  position,  should 
hear.  She  insists  on  it,  Captain  Newenden — and 
I  am  obliged  to  submit." 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
showed  his  beautiful  teeth. 

Blanche  was  far  too  deeply  interested  in  the 
coming  ordeal  to  care  to  defend  herself:  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  not  even  heard  what  her 
step-mother  had  said  of  her.  The  solicitor  re- 
mained absorbed  in  the  interesting  view  of  the 
falling  rain.  Lady  Lundie  asked  after  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  The  captain,  in  reply,  described  his 
niece's  anxiety  as  something — something — some- 
thing, in  short,  only  to  be  indicated  by  shaking 
his  ambrosial  curls  and  waving  his  jaunty  cane. 
Mrs.  Delamayn  was  staying  with  her  until  her 
uncle  returned  with  the  news.  And  where  was 
Julius  ?  Detained  in  Scotland  by  election  busi- 
ness. And  Lord  and  Lady  Holchester  ?  Lord 
and  Lady  Holchester  knew  nothing  about  it. 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  Blanche's 
pale  face  turned  paler  still.  Was  it  Arnold  ? 
Was  it  Anne  ?  After  a  longer  delay  than  usual, 
the  sen-ant  announced  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
and  Mr.  Moy. 

Geoffrey,  slowly  entering  first,  saluted  the  two 
ladies  in  silence,  and  noticed  no  one  else.  The 
London  solicitor,  withdrawing  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment from  the  absorbing  prospect  of  the  rain, 
pointed  to  the  places  reserved  for  the  new-comer 
and  for  the  legal  adviser  whom  he  had  brought 
with  him.  Geoffrey  seated  himself,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  round  the  room.  Leaning  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  he  vacantly  traced  patterns 
on  the  carpet  with  his  clumsy  oaken  walking- 
stick.  Stolid  indifference  expressed  itself  in  his 
lowering  brow  and  his  loosely-hanging  mouth. 
The  loss  of  the  race,  and  the  circumstances  ac- 
companying it,  appeared  to  have  made  him  dull- 
er than  usual  and  heavier  than  usual — and  that 
was  all. 

Captain  Newenden,  approaching  to  speak  to 
him,  stopped  half-way,  hesitated,  thought  better 
of  it — and  addressed  himself  to  Mr.  Moy. 

Geoffrey's  legal  adviser — a  Scotchman  of  the 
ruddy,  ready,  and  convivial  type — cordially  met 
the  advance.  He  announced,  in  reply  to  the 


captain's  inquiry,  that  the  witnesses  (Mrs.  Inch- 
bare  and  Bishopriggs)  were  waiting  below  until 
they  were  wanted,  in  the  housekeeper's  room. 
Had  there  been  any  difficulty  in  finding  them  ? 
Not  the  least.  Mrs.  Inchbare  was,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  at  her  hotel.  Inquiries  being  set  on 
foot  for  Bishopriggs,  it  appeared  that  he  and  the 
landlady  had  come  to  an  understanding,  and 
that  he  had  returned  to  his  old  post  of  head- 
waiter  at  the  inn.  The  captain  and  Mr.  Moy 
kept  up  the  conversation  between  them,  thus  be- 
gun, with  unflagging  ease  and  spirit.  Theirs 
were  the  only  voices  heard  in  the  trying  inter- 
val that  elapsed  before  the  next  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door. 

At  last  it  came.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
now  as  to  the  persons  who  might  next  be  ex- 
pected to  enter  the  room.  Lady  Lundie  took 
her  step-daughter  firmly  by  the  hand.  She  was 
not  sure  of  what  Blanche's  first  impulse  might 
lead  her  to  do.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
Blanche  left  her  hand  willingly  in  her  step-mo- 
ther's grasp. 

The  door  opened,  and  they  came  in. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  entered  first,  with  Anne 
Silvester  on  his  arm.  Arnold  Brinkworth  fol- 
lowed them. 

Both  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  bowed  in  silence 
to  the  persons  assembled.  Lady  Lundie  cere- 
moniously returned  her  brother-in-law's  salute — 
and  pointedly  abstained  from  noticing  Anne's 
presence  in  the  room.  Blanche  never  looked 
up.  Arnold  advanced  to  her,  with  his  hand 
held  out.  Lady  Lundie  rose,  and  motioned  him 
back.  "Not  yet,  Mr.  Brinkworth!"  she  said, 
in  her  most  quietly  merciless  manner.  Arnold 
stood,  heedless  of  her,  looking  at  his  wife.  His 
wife  lifted  her  eyes  to  his;  the  tears  rose  in 
them  on  the  instant.  Arnold's  dark  complexion 
turned  ashy  pale  under  the  effort  that  it  cost  him 
to  command. himself.  "I  won't  distress  you," 
he  said,  gently — and  turned  back  again  to  th6 
table  at  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  were  seatea 
together  apart  from  the  rest.  Sir  Patrick  took 
his  hand,  and  pressed  it  in  silent  approval. 

The  one  person  who  took  no  part,  even  as 
spectator,  in  the  events  that  followed  the  appear- 
ance of  Sir  Patrick  and  his  companions  in  the 
room — was  Geoffrey.  The  only  change  visible 
in  him  was  a  change  in  the  handling  of  his  walk- 
ing-stick. Instead  of  tracing  patterns  on  the 
carpet,  it  beat  a  tattoo.  For  the  rest,  there  he 
sat  with  his  heavy  head  on  his  breast  and  his 
brawny  arms  on  his  knees — weary  of  it  by  an- 
ticipation before  it  had  begun. 

Sir  Patrick  broke  the  silence.  He  addressed 
himself  to  his  sister-in-law. 

"Lady  Lundie,  are  all  the  persons  present 
whom  you  expected  to  see  here  to-day  ?" 

The  gathered  venom  in  Lady. Lundie  seized 
the  opportunity  of  planting  its  first  sting. 

"All  whom  I  expected  are  here,"  she  an- 
swered. "And  more  than  I  expected,"  she 
added,  with  a  look  at  Anne. 

The  look  was  not  returned  —  was  not  even 
seen.  From  the  moment  when  she  had  taken 
her  place  by  Sir  Patrick,  Anne's  eyes  had  rested 
on  Blanche.  They  never  moved — they  never  for 
an  instant  lost  their  tender  sadness — when  the 
woman  who  hated  her  spoke.  All  that  was 
beautiful  and  true  in  that  noble  nature  seemed  to 
find  its  one  sufficient  encouragement  in  Blanche. 


192 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


As  she  looked  once  more  at  the  sister  of  the  un- 
forgotten  days  of  old,  its  native  beauty  of  ex- 
pression shone  out  again  in  her  worn  and  weary 
face.  Every  man  in  the  room  (but  Geoffrey) 
looked" at  her;  and  every  man  (but  Geoffrey) 
felt  for  her. 

.  Sir  Patrick  addressed  a  second  question  to 
his  sister-in-law. 

"  Is  there  any  one  here  to  represent  the  inter- 
ests of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?"  he  asked. 

Lady  Lundie  referred  Sir  Patrick  to  Geoffrey 
himself.  Without  looking  up,  Geoffrey  motioned 
with  his  big  brown  hand  to  Mr.  Moy,  sitting  by 
his  side. 

Mr.  Moy  (holding  the  legal  rank  in  Scotland 
which  corresponds  to  the  rank  held  by  solicitors 
in  England)  rose  and  bowed  to  Sir  Patrick,  with 
the  courtesy  due  to  a  man  eminent  in  his  time  at 
the  Scottish  Bar. ' 

"I  represent  Mr.  Delamayn,"  he  said.  "I 
congratulate  myself,  Sir  Patrick,  on  having  your 
ability  and  experience  to  appeal  to  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  pending  inquiry. " 

Sir  Patrick  returned  the  compliment  as  well 
as  the  bow. 

"It  is  I  who  should  learn  from  you,"  he  an- 
swered. "/  have'  had  time,  Mr.  Moy,  to  for- 
get what  I  once  knew." 

Lady  Lundie  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  unconcealed  impatience  as  these  formal 
courtesies  were  exchanged  between  the  lawyers. 
"Allow  me  to  remind  you,  gentlemen,  of  the 
suspense  that  we  are  suffering  at  this  end  of  the 
room,"  she  said.  "And  permit  me  to  ask  when 
you  propose  to  begin  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  looked  invitingly  at  Mr.  Moy. 
Mr.  Moy  looked  invitingly  at  Sir  Patrick.  More 
formal  courtesies !  a  polite  contest  this  time  as 
to  which  of  the  two  learned  gentlemen  should 
permit  the  other  to  speak  first !  Mr.  Moy's  mod- 
esty proving  to  be  quite  immovable,  Sir  Patrick 
ended  it  by  opening  the  proceedings. 

"I  am  here,"  he  said,  "to  act  on  behalf  of 
my  friend,  Mr.  Arnold  JBrinkworth.  I  beg  to 
present  him  to  you,  Mr.  Moy,  as  the  husband  of 
my  niece — to  whom  he  was  lawfully  married  on 
the  seventh  of  September  last,  at  the  Church  of 
Saint  Margaret,  in  the  parish  of  Hawley,  Kent. 
I  have  a  copy  of  the  marriage  certificate  here — 
if  you  wish  to  look  at  it." 

Mr.  Moy's  modesty  declined  to  look  at  it. 

"  Quite  needless,  Sir  Patrick  !  I  admit  that 
a  marriage  ceremony  took  place  on  the  date 
named,  between  the  persons  named ;  but  I  con- 
tend that  it  was  not  a  valid  marriage.  I  say,  on 
behalf  of  my  client  here  present  (Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn),  that  Arnold  Brinkworth  was  mar- 
ried at  a  date  prior  to  the  seventh  of  September 
last — namely,  on  the  fourteenth  of  August  in  this 
year,  and  at  a  place  called  Craig  Fernie,  in  Scot- 
land— to  a  lady  named  Anne  Silvester,  now  liv- 
ing, and  present  among  us  (as  I  understand)  at 
this  moment." 

Sir  Patrick  presented  Anne.  "This  is  the 
lady,  Mr.  Moy. " 

Mr.  Moy  bowed,  and  made  a  suggestion. 
"To  save  needless  formalities,  Sir  Patrick, shall 
we  take  the  question  of  identity  as  established 
on  both  sides  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  agreed  with  his  learned  friend. 
Lady  Lundie  opened  and  shut  her  fan  in  undis- 
guised impatience.  The  London  solicitor  was 


deeply  interested.  Captain  Newenden,  taking 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  using  it  as  a  screen, 
yawned  behind  it  to  his  heart's  content.  Sir 
Patrick  resumed. 

"You  assert  the  prior  marriage,"  he  said  to 
his  colleague.  "It  rests  with  you  to  begin." 

Mr.  Moy  cast  a  preliminary  look  round  him  at 
the  persons  assembled. 

"The  object  of  our  meeting  here,"  he  said, 
"is,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  of  a  twofold  nature. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  thought  desirable,  by  a 
person  who  has  a  special  interest  in  the  issue  of 
this  inquiry"  (he  glanced  at  the  captain— the 
captain  suddenly  became  attentive),  "  to  put  my 
client's  assertion,  relating  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  s 
marriage,  to  the  proof.  In  the  second  place, 
we  are  all  equally  desirous — whatever  difference 
of  opinion  may  otherwise  exist — to  make  this  in- 
formal inquiry  a  means,  if  possible,  of  avoiding 
the  painful  publicity  which  would  result  from  an 
appeal  to  a  Court  of  Law." 

At  those  words  the  gathered  venom  in  Lady 
Lundie  planted  its  second  sting — under  cover  of 
a  protest  addressed  to  Mr.  Moy. 

"I  beg  to  inform  you,  Sir,  on  behalf  of  my 
step-daughter, "she  said,  "that  we  have  nothing 
to  dread  from  the  widest  publicity.  We  consent 
to  be  present  at,  what  you  call,  '  this  informal 
inquiry,'  reserving  our  right  to  carry  the  matter 
beyond  the  four  walls  of  this  room.  I  am  not 
referring  now  to  Mr.  Brinkworth's  chance  of 
clearing  himself  from  an  odious  suspicion  which 
rests  upon  him,  and  upon  another  Person  pres- 
ent. That  is  an  after-matter.  The  object  im- 
mediately before  us — so  far  as  a  woman  can  pre- 
tend to  understand  it — is  to  establish  my  step- 
daughter's right  to  call  Mr.  Brinkworth  to  ac- 
count in  the  character  of  his  wife.  If  the  result, 
so  far,  fails  to  satisfy  us  in  that  particular,  we 
shall  not  hesitate  to  appeal  to  a  Court  of  Law." 
She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  opened  her 
fan,  and  looked  round  her  with  the  air  of  a  wo- 
man who  called  society  to  witness  that  she  had 
done  her  duty. 

An  expression  of  pain  crossed  Blanche's  face 
while  her  step -mother  was  speaking.  Lady 
Lundie  took  her  hand  for  the  second  time. 
Blanche  resolutely  and  pointedly  withdrew  it — 
Sir  Patrick  noticing  the  action  with  special  in- 
terest. Before  Mr.  Moy  could  say  a  word  in 
answer,  Arnold  centred  the  general  attention  on 
himself  by  suddenly  interfering  in  the  proceed- 
ings. Blanche  looked  at  him.  A  bright  flush 
of  color  appeared  on  her  face — and  left  it  again. 
Sir  Patrick  noted  the  change  of  color — and  ob- 
served her  more  attentively  than  ever.  Arnold's 
letter  to  his  wife,  with  time  to  help  it,  had 
plainly  shaken  her  ladyship's  influence  over 
Blanche. 

"After  what  Lady  Lundie  has  said,  in  my 
wife's  presence, "  Arnold  burst  out,  in  his  straight- 
forward, boyish  way,  ' '  I  think  I  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed to  say  a  word  on  my  side.  I  only  want  to 
explain  how  it  was  I  came  to  go  to  Craig  Fernie 
at  all — and  I  challenge  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
to  deny  it,  if  he  can." 

His  voice  rose  at  the  last  words,  and  his  eyes 
brightened  with  indignation  as  he  looked  at 
Geoffrey. 

Mr.  Moy  appealed  to  his  learned  friend. 

"  With  submission,  Sir  Patrick,  to  your  better 
judgment,"  he  said,  "this  young  gentleman's 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


193 


"ARNOLD  STKRNLY  ADDRESSED  HIMSELF  TO  GEOFFUEY." 


proposal  seems  to  be  a  little  bnt  of  place  at  the 
present  stage  of  the  proceedings." 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Sir  Patrick.  "  You 
have  yourself  described  the  proceedings  as  rep- 
resenting an  informal  inquiry.  An  informal 
proposal — with  submission  to  your  better  judg- 
ment, Mr.  Moy — is  hardly  out  of  place,  under 
those  circumstances,  is  it  ?" 

Mr.  Moy's  inexhaustible  modesty  gave  way, 
without  a  struggle.  The  answer  which  he  re- 
ceived had  the  effect  of  puzzling  him  at  the  out- 
set of  the  investigation.  A  man  of  Sir  Patrick's 
experience  must  have  known  that  Arnold's  mere 
assertion  of  his  own  innocence  could  be  productive 
of  nothing  but  useless  delay  in  the  proceedings. 
And  yet  he  sanctioned  that  delay.  Was  he  pri- 
vately on  the  watch  for  any  accidental  circum- 
stance which  might  help  him  to  better  a  case 
that  he  knew  to  be  a  bad  one  ? 

Permitted  to  speak,  Arnold  spoke.  The  un- 
mistakable accent  of  truth  was  in  every  word 
that  he  uttered.  He  gave  a  fairly  coherent  ac- 
count of  events,  from  the  time  when  Geoffrey  had 
claimed  his  assistance  at  the  lawn-party  to  the 
time  when  he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the 
inn  at  Craig  Fernie.  There  Sir  Patrick  inter- 
fered, and  closed  his  lips.  He  asked  leave  to 
appeal  to  Geoffrey  to  confirm  him.  Sir  Patrick 
amazed  Mr.  Moy  by  sanctioning  this  irregularity 
also.  Arnold  sternly  addressed  himself  to  Geof- 
frey. 

"  Do  you  deny  that  what  I  have  said  is  true  ?" 
he  asked. 

Mr.  Moy  did  his  duty  by  his  client.  "  You 
are  not  bound  to  answer,"  he  said,  "  unless  you 
wish  it  yourself." 

Geoffrey  slowly  lifted  his  heavy  head,  and 
confronted  the  man  whom  he  had  betrayed. 


"I  deny  every  word  of  it,"  he  answered — 
with  a  stolid  defiance  of  tone  and  manner. 

"Have  we  had  enough  of  assertion  and  coun- 
ter-assertion, Sir  Patrick,  by  this  time  ? '  asked 
Mr.  Moy,  with  undiminished  politeness. 

After  first  forcing  Arnold — with  some  little 
difficulty — to  control  himself,  Sir  Patrick  raised 
Mr.  Moy's  astonishment  to  the  culminating 
point.  For  reasons  of  his  own,  he  determined 
to  strengthen  the  favorable  impression  which 
Arnold's  statement  had  plainly  produced  on  his 
wife  before  the  inquiry  proceeded  a  step  far- 
ther. 

"I  mdfct  throw  myself  on  your  indulgence, 
Mr.  Moy,"  he  said.  "I  have  not  had  enough 
of  assertion  and  counter-assertion,  even  yet." 

Mr.  Moy  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  bewilderment  and  resigna- 
tion. Either  his  colleague's  intellect  was-  in  a 
failing  state — or  his  colleague  had  some  purpose 
in  view  which  had  not  openly  asserted  itself  yet. 
He  began  to  suspect  that  the  right  reading  of  the 
riddle  was  involved  in  the  latter  of  those  two 
alternatives.  Instead  of  entering  any  fresh  pro- 
test, he  wisely  waited  and  watched. 

Sir  Patrick  went  on  unblushingly  from  one 
irregularity  to  another. 

"  I  request  Mr.  Moy's  permission  to  revert 
to  the  alleged  marriage,  on  the  fourteenth  of 
August,  at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said.  "Arnold 
Brinkworth !  answer  for  yourself,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  persons  here  assembled.  In  all  that 
you  said,  and  all  that  you  did,  while  you  were  at 
the  inn,  were  you  not  solely  influenced  by  the 
wish  to  make  Miss  Silvester's  position  as  little 
painful  to  her  as  possible,  and  by  anxiety  to  car- 
ry out  the  instructions  given  to  you  by  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?  Is  that  the  whole  truth  ?'' 


191 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"That  is  the  whole  truth,  Sir  Patrick." 

"On  the  day  when  you  went  to  Craig  Fernie, 
had  you  not,  a  few  hours  previously,  applied  for 
my  permission  to  marry  my  niece  ?" 

"  I  applied  for  your  permission,  Sir  Patrick ; 
and  you  gave  it  me." 

"From  the  moment  when  you  entered  the  inn 
to  the  moment  when  you  left  it,  were  you  abso- 
lutely innocent  of  the  slightest  intention  to  mar- 
ry Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"No  such  thing  as  the  thought  of  marrying 
Miss  Silvester  ever  entered  my  head." 

"  And  this  you  say,  on  your  word  of  honor  as 
a  gentleman  ?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

Sir  Patrick  turned  to  Anne. 

"Was  it  a  matter  of  necessity,  Miss  Silvester, 
that  you  should  appear  in  the  assumed  character 
of  a  married  woman — on  the  fourteenth  of  Au- 
gust last,  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn  ?" 

Anne  looked  away  from  Blanche  for  the  first 
time.  She  replied  to  Sir  Patrick  quietly,  readi- 
ly, firmly — Blanche  looking  at  her,  and  listening 
to  he*r  with  eager  interest. 

"  I  went  to  the  inn  alone,  Sir  Patrick.  The 
landlady  refused,  in  the  plainest  terms,  to  let  me 
stay  there,  unless  she  was  first  satisfied  that  I 
was  a  married  woman. " 

"  Which  of  the  two  gentlemen  did  you  expect 
to  join  you  at  the  inn — Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth, 
or  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"  When  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  came  in  his 
place,  and  said  what  was  necessary  to  satisfy  the 
scruples  of  the  landlady,  you  understood  that  he 
was  acting  in  your  interests,  from  motives  of 
kindness  only,  and  under  the  instructions  of  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  ?" 

"  I  understood  that ;  and  I  objected  as  strong- 
ly as  I  could  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  placing  himself 
in  a  false  position  on  my  account." 

' '  Did  your  objection  proceed  from  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  Scottish  law  of  marriage,  and  of  the 
position  in  which  the  peculiarities  of  that  law 
might  place  Mr.  Brinkworth  ?" 

"  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  Scottish  law.  I 
had  a  vague  dislike  and  dread  of  the  deception 
which  Mr.  Brinkworth  was  practicing  on  the 
people  of  the  inn.  And  I  feared  that  it  might 
lead  to  some  possible  misinterpretation  of  me  on 
the  part  of  a  person  whom  1  dearly  loved. " 

"  That  person  being  mv  niece  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  appealed  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  (knowing 
of  his  attachment  to  my  niece),  in  her  name, 
and  for  her  sake,  to  leave  you  to  shift  for  your- 
self?" 

"I  did." 

"  As  a  gentleman  who  had  given  his  promise 
to  help  and  protect  a  lady,  in  the  absence  of  the 
person  whom  she  had  depended  on  to  join  her, 
lie  refused  to  leave  you  to  shift  for  yourself?" 

"  Unhappily,  he  refused  on  that  account." 

"From  first  to  last,  you  were  absolutely  in- 
nocent of  the  slightest  intention  to  marry  Mr. 
Brinkworth  ?" 

"1  answer,  Sir  Patrick,  as  Mr.  Brinkworth 
has  answered.  No  such  thing  as  the  thought  of 
marrying  him  ever  entered  my  head." 

"And  this  you  say,  on  your  oath  as  a  Chris- 
tian woman  ?" 

"  On  my  oath  as  a  Christian  woman." 


Sir  Patrick  looked  round  at  Blanche.  Her 
face  was  hidden  in  her  hands.  Her  step-mother 
was  vainly  appealing  to  her  to  compose  herself. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  Mr. 
Moy  interfered  in  the  interests  of  his  client. 

"  I  waive  my  claim,  Sir  Patrick,  to  put  any 
questions  on  my  side.  I  merely  desire  to  re- 
mind you,  and  to  remind  the  company  present, 
that  all  that  we  have  just  heard  is  mere  assertion 
— on  the  part  of  two  persons  strongly  interested 
in  extricating  themselves  from  a  position  which 
fatally  compromises  them  both.  The  marriage 
which  they  deny  I  am  now  waiting  to  prove — 
not  by  assertion,  on  my  side,  but  by  appeal  to 
competent  witnesses." 

After  a  brief  consultation  with  her  own  solicit- 
or, Lady  Lundie  followed  Mr.  Moy,  in  stronger 
language  still. 

"I  wish  you  to  understand,  Sir  Patrick,  be- 
fore you  proceed  any  farther,  that  I  shall  remove 
my  step-daughter  from  the  room  if  any  more 
attempts  are  made  to  harrow  her  feelings  and 
mislead  her  judgment.  I  want  words  to  express 
my  sense  of  this  most  cruel  and  unfair  way  of 
conducting  the  inquiry." 

The  London  lawyer  followed,  stating  his  pro- 
fessional approval  of  his  client's  view.  "  As  her 
ladyship's  legal  adviser,"  he  said,  "  I  support  the 
protest  which  her  ladyship  has  just  made." 

Even  Captain  Newenden  agreed  in  the  gener- 
al disapproval  of  Sir  Patrick's  conduct.  ' '  Hear, 
hear!"  said  the  captain,  when  the  lawyer  had 
spoken.  "Quite  right.  I  must  say,  quite 
right." 

Apparently  impenetrable  to  all  due  sense  of 
his  position,  Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to 
Mr.  Moy,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"Do  you  wish  to  produce  your  witnesses  at 
once?"  he  asked.  "  I  have  not  the  least  objec- 
tion to  meet  your  views — on  the  understanding 
that  I  am  permitted  to  return  to  the  proceedings 
as  interrupted  at  this  point." 

Mr.  Moy  considered.  The  adversary  (there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  it  by  this  time)  had  some- 
thing in  reserve — and  the  adversary  had  not  yet 
shown  his  hand.  It  was  more  immediately  im- 
portant to  lead  him  into  doing  this  than  to  insist 
on  rights  and  privileges  of  the  purely  formal 
sort.  Nothing  could  shake  the  strength  of  the 
position  which  Mr.  Moy  occupied.  The  longer 
Sir  Patrick's  irregularities  delayed  the  proceed- 
ings, the  more  irresistibly  the  plain  facts  of  the 
case  would  assert  themselves — with  all  the  force 
of  contrast — out  of  the  mouths  of  the  witnesses 
who  were  in  attendance  down  stairs.  He  de- 
termined to  wait. 

' '  Reserving  my  right  of  objection,  Sir  Pat- 
rick," he  answered,  "  I  beg  you  to  go  on." 

To  the  surprise  of  every  body,  Sir  Patrick  ad- 
dressed himself  directly  to  Blanche — quoting  the 
language  in  which  Lady  Lundie  had  spoken  to 
him,  with  perfect  composure  of  tone  and  man- 
ner. 

"You  know  me  well  enough,  my  dear, "he 
said,  "  to  be  assured  that  I  am  incapable  of  will- 
ingly harrowing  your  feelings  or  misleading  your 
judgment.  I  have  a  question  to  ask  yon,  which 
you  can  answer  or  not,  entirely  as  you  please. " 

Before  he  could  put  the  question  there  was  a 
momentary  contest  between  Lady  Lundie  and 
her  legal  adviser.  Silencing  her  ladyship  (not 
without  difficulty),  the  London  lawyer  interposed. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


195 


He  also  begged  leave  to  reserve  the  right  of  objec- 
tion, so  far  as  his  client  was  concerned. 

Sir  Patrick  assented  by  a  sign,  and  proceeded 
to  put  his  question  to  Blanche. 

"You  have  heard  what  Arnold  Brinkworth 
has  said,  and  what  Miss  Silvester  has  said,"  he 
resumed.  "The  husband  who  loves  you,  and 
the  sisterly  friend  who  loves  you,  have  each 
made  a  solemn  declaration.  Recall  your  past 
experience  of  both  of  them ;  remember  what 
they  have  just  said ;  and  now  tell  me — do  you 
believe  they  have  spoken  falsely  ?" 

Blanche  answered  on  the  instant. 

"I  believe,  uncle,  they  have  spoken  the  truth !" 

Both  the  lawyers  registered  their  objections. 
Lady  Lundie  made  another  attempt  to  speak, 
and  was  stopped  once  more — this  time  by  Mr. 
Moy  as  well  as  by  her  own  adviser.  Sir  Patrick 
went  on. 

"Do  you  feel  any  doubt  as  to  the  entire  propri- 
ety of  your  husband's  conduct  and  your  friend's 
conduct,  now  you  have  seen  them  and  heard 
them,  face  to  face  ?" 

Blanche  answered  again,  with  the  same  ab- 
sence of  reserve. 

"I  ask  them  to  forgive  me,"  she  said.  "I 
believe  I  have  done  them  both  a  great  wrong." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  first  —  then  at 
Anne.  Arnold  attempted  to  leave  his  chair. 
Sir  Patrick  firmly  restrained  him.  "  Wait!"  he 
whispered.  "You  don't  know  what  is  coming." 
Having  said  that,  he  turned  toward  Anne. 
Blanche's  look  had  gone  to  the  heart  of  the 
faithful  woman  who  loved  her.  Anne's  face  was 
turned  away — the  tears  were  forcing  themselves 
through  the  worn  weak  hands  that  tried  vainly  to 
hide  them. 

The  formal  objections  of  the  lawyers  were 
registered  once  more.  Sir  Patrick  addressed 
himself  to  his  niece  for  the  last  time. 

"  You  believe  what  Arnold  Brinkworth  has 
said  ;  you  believe  what  Miss  Silvester  has  said. 
You  know  that  not  even  the  thought  of  marriage 
was  in  the  mind  of  either  of  them,  at  the  inn. 
You  know — whatever  else  may  happen  in  the 
future — that  there  is  not  the  most  remote  possi- 
bility of  either  of  them  consenting  to  acknowl- 
edge that  they  ever  have  been,  or  ever  can  be, 
Man  and  Wife.  Is  that  enough  for  you  ?  Are 
you  willing,  before  this  inquiry  proceeds  any 
farther,  to  take  your  husband's  hand ;  to  return 
to  your  husband's  protection ;  and  to  leave  the 
rest  to  me — satisfied  with  my  assurance  that,  on 
the  facts  as  they  happened,  not  even  the  Scotch 
Law  can  prove  the  monstrous  assertion  of  the 
marriage  at  Craig  Fernie  to  be  true  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  rose.  Both  the  lawyers  rose. 
Arnold  sat  lost  in  astonishment.  Geoffrey  him- 
self— brutishly  careless  thus  far  of  all  that  had 
passed — Lifted  his  head  with  a  sudden  start.  In 
the  midst  of  the  profound  impression  thus  pro- 
duced, Blanche,  on  whose  decision  the  whole  fu- 
ture course  of  the  inquiry  now  turned,  answered 
in  these  words : 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful, 
uncle.  I  am  sure  that  Arnold  has  not,  know- 
ingly, done  me  any  wrong.  But  I  can't  go  back 
to  him  until  I  am  first  certain  that  I  am  his  wife. " 

Lady  Lundie  embraced  her  step  -  daughter, 
with  a  sudden  outburst  of  affection.  "  My  dear 
child ! "  exclaimed  her  ladyship,  fervently.  ' '  Well 
done,  my  own  dear  child !" 


Sir  Patrick's  head  dropped  on  his  breast. 
"Oh,  Blanche!  Blanche!"  Arnold  heard  him 
whisper  to  himself;  "if  you  only  knew  what  you 
are  forcing  me  to!" 

Mr.  Moy  put  in  his  word,  on  Blanche's  side 
of  the  question. 

"I  must  most  respectfully  express  my  approv- 
al also  of  the  course  which  the  young  lady  has 
taken, "he  said.  "A  more  dangerous  compro- 
mise than  the  compromise  which  we  have  just 
heard  suggested  it  is  difficult  to  imagine.  With 
all  deference  to  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,  his  opinion 
of  the  impossibility  of  proving  the  marriage  at 
Craig  Fernie  remains  to  be  confirmed  as  the 
right  one.  My  own  professional  opinion  is  op- 
posed to  it.  The  opinion  of  another  Scottish 
lawyer  (in  Glasgow)  is,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, opposed  to  it.  If  the  young  lady  had  not 
acted  with  a  wisdom  and  courage  which  do  her 
honor,  she  might  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when 
her  reputation  would  have  been  destroyed,  and 
her  children  declared  illegitimate.  Who  is  to 
say  that  circumstances  may  not  happen  in  the 
future  which  may  force  Mr.  Brinkworth  or  Miss 
Silvester — one  or  the  other — to  assert  the  very 
marriage  which  they  repudiate  now  ?  Who  is  to 
say  that  interested  relatives  (property  being  con- 
cerned here)  may  not,  in  the  lapse  of  years,  dis- 
cover motives  of  their  own  for  questioning  the 
asserted  marriage  in  Kent  ?  I  acknowledge  that 
I  envy  the  immense  self-confidence  which  em- 
boldens Sir  Patrick  to  venture,  what  he  is  will- 
ing to  venture  upon  his  own  individual  opinion 
on  an  undecided  point  of  law. " 

He  sat  down  amidst  a  murmur  of  approval,  and 
cast  a  slyly-expectant  look  at  his  defeated  adver- 
sary. "  If  that  doesn't  irritate  him  into  showing 
his  hand,"  thought  Mr.  Moy,  "nothing  will!" 

Sir  Patrick  slowly  raised  his  head.  There  was 
no  irritation — there  was  only  distress  in  his  face 
— when  he  spoke  next. 

"  I  don't  propose,  Mr.  Moy,  to  argue  the  point 
with  you, "he  said,  gently.  "I  can  understand 
that  my  conduct  must  necessarily  appear  strange 
and  even  blameworthy,  not  in  your  eyes  only,  but 
in  the  eyes  of  others.  My  young  friend  here  will 
tell  you"  (he  looked  toward  Arnold)  "that  the 
view  which  you  express  as  to  the  future  peril  in- 
volved in  this  case  was  once  the  view  in  my  mind 
too,  and  that  in  what  I  have  done  thus  far  I  have 
acted  in  direct  contradiction  to  advice  which  I 
myself  gave  at  no  very  distant  period.  Excuse 
me,  if  you  please,  from  entering  (for  the  present 
at  least)  into  the  motive  which  has  influenced  me 
from  the  time  when  I  entered  this  room.  My 
position  is  one  of  unexampled  responsibility  and 
of  indescribable  distress.  May  I  appeal  to  that 
statement  to  stand  as  my  excuse,  if  I  plead  for 
a  last  extension  of  indulgence  toward  the  last  ir- 
regularity of  which  I  shall  be  guilty,  in  connec- 
tion with  these  proceedings  ?" 

Lady  Lundie  alone  resisted  the  unaffected  and 
touching  dignity  with  which  those  words  were 
spoken. 

"We  have  had  enough  of  irregularity,"  she 
said, sternly.  "I,  for  one,  object  to  more." 

Sir  Patrick  waited  patiently  for  Mr.  Moy's  re- 
ply. The  Scotch  lawyer  and  the  English  lawyer 
looked  at  each  other — and  understood  each  oth- 
er. Mr.  Moy  answered  for  both. 

"  We  don't  presume  to  restrain  you,  Sir  Pat- 
rick, by  other  limits  than  those  which,  as  a  gen- 


196 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


tleman,  you  impose  on  yourself.  Subject," add- 
ed the  cautious  Scotchman,  "to  the  right  of 
objection  which  we  have  already  reserved. " 

"Do  you  object  to  my  speaking  to  your  cli- 
ent ?"  asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"To  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"Yes." 

All  eyes  turned  on  Geoffrey.  He  was  sitting 
half  asleep,  as  it  seemed — with  his  heavy  hands 
hanging  listlessly  over  his  knees,  and  his  chin 
resting  on  the  hooked  handle  of  his  stick. 

Looking  toward  Anne,  when  Sir  Patrick  pro- 
nounced Geoffrey's  name,  Mr.  Moy  saw  a  change 
in  her.  She  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face, 
and  turned  suddenly  toward  her  legal  adviser. 
Was  she  in  the  secret  of  the  carefully  concealed 
object  at  which  his  opponent  had  been  aiming 
from  the  first?  Mr.  Moy  decided  to  put  that 
doubt  to  the  test.  He  invited  Sir  Patrick,  by  a 
gesture,  to  proceed.  Sir  Patrick  addressed  him- 
self to  Geoffrey. 

"  You  are  seriously  interested  in  this  inquiry," 
he  said  ;  "  and  you  have  taken  no  part  in  it  yet. 
Take  a  part  in  it  now.  Look  at  this  lady. " 

Geoffrey  never  moved. 

"I've  seen  enough  of  her  already,"  he  said, 
brutally. 

"  You  may  well  be  ashamed  to  look  at  her," 
said  Sir  Patrick,  quietly.  "  But  you  might  have 
acknowledged  it  in  fitter  words.  Carry  your 
memory  back  to  the  fourteenth  of  August.  Do 
you  deny  that  you  promised  to  marry  Miss  Sil- 
vester privately  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn  ?'' 

"I  object  to  that  question,"  said  Mr.  Moy. 
"  My  client  is  under  no  sort  of  obligation  to  an- 
swer it. " 

Geoffrey's  rising  temper — ready  to  resent  any 
thing — resented  his  adviser's  interference.  "  I 
shall  answer  if  I  like,"  he  retorted,  insolently. 
He  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Sir  Patrick,  with- 
out moving  his  chin  from  the  hook  of  his  stick. 
Then  he  looked  down  again.  "I  do  deny  it," 
he  said. 

"  You  deny  that  you  have  promised  to  marry 
Miss  Silvester  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  asked  you  just  now  to  look  at  her — " 

"  And  I  told  you  I  had  seen  enough  of  her  al- 
ready." 

"Look  at  me.  In  my  presence,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  other  persons  here,  do  you  deny 
that  you  owe  this  lady,  by  your  own  solemn  en- 
gagement, the  reparation  of  marriage?" 

He  suddenly  lifted  his  head.  His  eyes,  after 
resting  for  an  instant  only  on  Sir  Patrick,  turned, 
little  by  little ;  and,  brightening  slowly,  fixed 
themselves  with  a  hideous,  tigerish  glare  on 
Anne's  face.  "I  know  what  I  owe  her,"  he 
said. 

The  devouring  hatred  of  his  look  was  matched 
by  the  ferocious  vindictiveness  of  his  tone,  as  he 
spoke  those  words.  It  was  horrible  to  see  him ; 
it  was  horrible  to  hear  him.  Mr.  Moy  said  to 
him,  in  a  whisper,  ' '  Control  yourself,  or  I  will 
throw  up  your  case. " 

Without  answering — without  even  listening — 
he  lifted  one  of  his  hands,  and  looked  at  it  va- 
cantly. He  whispered  something  to  himself; 
and  counted  out  what  he  was  whispering  slowly ; 
in  divisions  of  his  own,  on  three  of  his  fingers  in 
succession.  He  fixed  his  eyes  again  on  Anne, 
with  the  same  devouring  hatred  in  their  look, 


[  and  spoke  (this  time  directly  addressing  himself 
j  to  her)  with  the  same  ferocious  vindictiveness  in 
|  his  tone.  "  But  for  you,  I  should  be  married  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  But  for  you,  I  should  be  friends 
with  my  father.  But  for  you,  I  should  have  won 
the  race.  I  know  what  I  owe  you."  His  loose- 
ly hanging  hands  stealthily  clenched  themselves. 
His  head  sank  again  on  his  broad  breast.  He 
said  no  more. 

Not  a  soul  moved — not  a  word  was  spoken. 
The  same  common  horror  held  them  all  speech- 
less. Anne's  eyes  turned  once  more  on  Blanche. 
Anne's  courage  upheld  her,  even  at  that  moment. 

Sir  Patrick  rose.  The  strong  emotion  which 
he  had  suppressed  thus  far,  showed  itself  plainly 
in  his  face — uttered  itself  plainly  in  his  voice. 

"  Come  into  the  next  room,"  he  said  to  Anne. 
"I  must  speak  to  you  instantly!" 

Without  noticing  the  astonishment  that  he 
caused ;  without  paying  the  smallest  attention  to 
the  remonstrances  addressed  to  him  by  his  sister- 
in-law  and  by  the  Scotch  lawyer,  he  took  Anne 
by  the  arm — opened  the  folding-doors  at  one  end 
of  the  room — entered  the  room  beyond  with  her 
— and  closed  the  doors  again. 

Lady  Lundie  appealed  to  her  legal  adviser. 
Blanche  rose — advanced  a  few  steps — and  stood 
in  breathless  suspense,  looking  at  the  folding- 
doors.  Arnold  advanced  a  step,  to  speak  to  his 
wife.  The  captain  approached  Mr.  Moy. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Moy  answered,  in  strong  agitation  on  his 
side. 

"  It  means  that  I  have  not  been  properly  in- 
structed. Sir  Patrick  Lundie  has  some  evidence 
in  his  possession  that  seriously  compromises  Mr. 
Delamayn's  case.  He  has  shrunk  from  produc- 
ing it  hitherto — he  finds  himself  forced  to  pro- 
duce it  now.  How  is  it,"  asked  the  lawyer,  turn- 
ing sternly  on  his  client,  "  that  you  have  left  me 
in  the  dark  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  Geof- 
frey, without  lifting  his  head. 

Lady  Lundie  signed  to  Blanche  to  stand  aside, 
and  advanced  toward  the  folding-doors.  Mr. 
Moy  stopped  her. 

"  I  advise  your  ladyship  to  be  patient.  Inter- 
ference is  useless  there. " 

"Am  I  not  to  interfere,  Sir,  in  my  own 
house?" 

"  Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  madam,  the 
end  of  the  proceedings  in  your  house  is  at  hand. 
You  will  damage  your  own  interests  by  interfer- 
ing. Let  us  know  what  we  are  about  at  last. 
Let  the  end  come." 

Lady  Lundie  3rielded,  and  returned  to  her 
place.  They  all  waited  in  silence  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  doors. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  and  Anne  Silvester  were 
alone  in  the  room. 

He  took  from  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat 
the  sheet  of  note-paper  which  contained  Anne's 
letter,  and  Geoffrey's  reply.  His  hand  trembled 
as  he  held  it ;  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke. 

"I  have  done  all  that  can  be  done,"  he  said. 
"I  have  left  nothing  untried,  to  prevent  the  ne- 
cessity of  producing  this." 

"I  feel  your  kindness  gratefully,  Sir  Patrick. 
You  must  produce  it  now." 

The  woman's  calmness  presented  a  strange  and 
touching  contrast  to  the  man's  emotion.  There 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


197 


"SHE  WAITED  FOR  HIM,  WITH  HEK  HAND  ON  THE  LOCK. 


was  no  shrinking  in  her  face,  there  was  no  un- 
steadiness in  her  voice  as  she  answered  him. 
He  took  her  hand.  Twice  he  attempted  to 
speak ;  and  twice  his  own  agitation  overpowered 
him.  He  offered  the  letter  to  her  in  silence. 

In  silence,  on  her  side,  she  put  the  letter  away 
from  her,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

"Take  it  back,"  he  said.  "I  can't  produce 
it !  I  daren't  produce  it !  After  what  my  own 
eyes  have  seen,  after  what  my  own  ears  have 
heard,  in  the  next  room — as  God  is  my  witness, 
I  daren't  ask  you  to  declare  yourself  Geoffrey 
Delamayn's  wife!" 

She  answered  him  in  one  word. 

"Blanche!" 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "  Not  even 
in  Blanche's  interests !  Not  even  for  Blanche's 
sake !  If  there  is  any  risk,  it  is  a  risk  I  am  ready 
to  run.  I  hold  to  my  own  opinion.  I  believe 
my  own  view  to  be  right.  Let  it  come  to  an  ap- 
peal to  the  law !  I  will  fight  the  case,  and  win 
it." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  winning  it,  Sir  Patrick  ?'' 

Instead  of  replying,  he  pressed  the  letter  on 
her.  "  Destroy  it,"  he  whispered.  "And  rely 
on  my  silence." 

She  took  the  letter  from  him. 

"  Destroy  it,"  he  repeated.  "  They  may  open 
the  doors.  They  may  come  in  at  any  moment, 
and  see  it  in  your  hand. " 

"  I  have  something  to  ask  you,  Sir  Patrick, 
before  I  destroy  it.  Blanche  refuses  to  go  back 
to  her  husband,  unless  she  returns  with  the  cer- 
tain assurance  of  being  really  his  wife.  If  I  pro- 
duce this  letter,  she  may  go  back  to  him  to-day. 
If  I  declare  myself  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  wife,  I 
clear  Arnold  Brinkworth,  at  once  and  forever, 
of  all  suspicion  of  being  married  to  me.  Can 


you  as  certainly  and  effectually  clear  him  in 
any  other  way  ?  Answer  me  that,  as  a  man  of 
honor  speaking  to  a  woman  who  implicitly  trusts 
him!" 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  His  eyes 
dropped  before  hers — he  made  no  reply: 

"I  am  answered,"  she  said. 

With  those  words,  she  passed  him,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  the  door. 

He  checked  her.  The  tears  rose  in  his  eyes 
as  he  drew  her  gently  back  into  the  room. 

"Why  should  we  Wait?"  she  asked. 

"  Wait,"  he  answered,  "  as  a  favor  to  me." 

She  seated  herself  calmly  in  the  nearest  chair, 
and  rested  her  head  on  her  hand,  thinking. 

He  bent  over  her,  and  roused  her,  impatiently, 
almost  angrily.  The  steady  resolution  in  her 
face  was  terrible  to  him,  when  he  thought  of  the 
man  in  the  next  room. 

' '  Take  time  to  consider, "  he  pleaded.  ' '  Don't 
be  led  away  by  your  own  impulse.  Don't  act 
under  a  false  excitement.  Nothing  binds  you  to 
this  dreadful  sacrifice  of  yourself. " 

"  Excitement !  Sacrifice !"  She  smiled  sadly 
as  she  repeated  the  words.  "Do  you  know, 
Sir  Patrick,  what  I  was  thinking  'of  a  moment 
since  ?  Only  of  old  times,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  I  saw  the  sad  side  of  life  sooner  than  most 
children  see  it.  My  mother  was  cruelly  deserted. 
The  hard  marriage  laws  of  this  country  were 
harder  on  her  than  on  me.  She  died  broken- 
hearted. But  one  friend  comforted  her  at  the 
last  moment,  and  promised  to  be  a  mother  to 
her  child.  I  can't  remember  one  unhappy  day 
in  all  the  after-time  when  I  lived  with  that  faith- 
ful woman  and  her  little  daughter — till  the  day 
that  parted  us.  She  went  away  with  her  hus- 
band ;  and  I  and  the  little  daughter  were  left  be- 


198 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


hind.  She  said  her  last  words  to  me.  Her 
heart  was  sinking  under  the  dread  of  coming 
death.  '  I  promised  your  mother  that  you  should 
be  like  my  own  child  to  me,  and  it  quieted  her 
mind.  Quiet  my  mind,  Anne,  before  I  go. 
Whatever  happens  in  years  to  come — promise 
me  to  be  always  what  you  are  now,  a  sister  to 
Blanche.'  Where  is  the  false  excitement,  Sir 
Patrick,  in  old  remembrances  like  these?  And 
how  can  there  be  a  sacrifice  in  any  thing  that 'I 
do  for  Blanche  ?" 

She  rose^and  offered  him  her  hand.  Sir  Pat- 
rick lifted  it  to  his  lips  in  silence. 

"Come!"  she  said.  "For  both  our  sakes, 
let  us  not  prolong  this. " 

lie  turned  aside  his  head.  It  was  no  moment 
to  let  her  see  that  she  had  completely  unmanned 
him.  She  waited  for  him,  with  her  hand  on  the 
lock.  He  rallied  his  courage — he  forced  himself 
to  face  the  horror  of  the  situation  calmly.  She 
opened  the  door,  and  led  the  way  back  into  the 

other  room. 

• 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  persons 
present,  as  the  two  returned  to  their  places. 
The  noise  of  a  carriage  passing  in  the  street  was 
painfully  audible.  The  chance  banging  of  a 
door  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  made  ev- 
ery one  start. 

Anne's  sweet  voice  broke  the  dreary  silence. 

"Must  I  speak  for  myself,  Sir  Patrick?  Or 
will  you  (I  ask  it  as  a  last  and  greatest  favor) 
speak  for  me  ?" 

"You  insist  on  appealing  to  the  letter  in  your 
hand  ?"' 

"  I  am  resolved  to  appeal  to  it." 

"  Will  nothing  induce  yon  to  defer  the  close 
of  this  inquiry — so  far  as  you  are  concerned — for 
four-and-twenty  hours  ?'' 

"  Either  you  or  I,  Sir  Patrick,  must  say  what 
is  to  be  said,  and  do  what  is  to  be  done,  before 
we  leave  this  room." 

"Give me  the  letter." 

She  gave  it  to  him.  Mr.  Moy  whispered  to 
his  client,  ' '  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?"  Geof- 
frey shook  his  head.  "Do  you  really  remember 
nothing  about  it?"  Geoffrey  answered  in  one 
surly  word,  "Nothing!" 

Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to  the  assem- 
bled company. 

"I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "for 
abruptly  leaving  the  room,  and  for  obliging  Miss 
Silvester  to  leave  it  with  me.  Every  body  pres- 
ent, except  that  man"  (he  pointed  to  Geoffrey), 
"  will,  I  believe,  understand  and  forgive  me,  now 
that  I  am  forced  to  make  my  conduct  the  sub- 
ject of  the  plainest  and  the  fullest  explanation. 
I  shall  address  that  explanation,  for  reasons 
which  will  presently  appear,  to  my  niece." 

Blanche  started.     "Tome!"  she  exclaimed. 

"To  you," Sir  Patrick  answered. 

Blanche  turned  toward  Arnold,  daunted  by  a 
vague  sense  of  something  serious  to  come.  The 
letter  that  she  had  received  from  her  husband  on 
her  departure  from  Ham  Farm  had  necessa- 
rily alluded  to  relations  between  Geoffrey  and 
Anne,  of  which  Blanche  had  been  previously  ig- 
norant. Was  any  reference  coming  to  those  re- 
lations? Was  there  something  yet  to  be  dis- 
closed which  Arnold's  letter  had  not  prepared 
her  to  hear  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  resumed. 


"A  short  time  since,"  he  said  to  Blanche,  " I 
proposed  to  you  to  return  to  your  husband's  pro- 
tection— and  to  leave  the  termination  of  this 
matter  in  my  hands.  You  have  refused  to  go 
back  to  him  until  you  are  first  certainly  assured 
that  you  are  his  wife.  Thanks  to  a  sacrifice  to 
your  interests  and  your  happiness,  on  Miss  Sil- 
vester's part — which  I  tell  you  frankly  I  have 
done  my  utmost  to  prevent — I  am  in  a  position 
to  prove  positively  that  Arnold  Brinkworth  was 
a  single  man  when  he  married  you  from  my 
house  in  Kent." 

Mr.  Moy's  experience  forewarned  him  of 
what  was  coming.  He  pointed  to  the  letter  in 
Sir  Patrick's  hand. 

' '  Do  you  claim  on  a  promise  of  marriage  ?"' 
|  he  asked. 

Sir  Patrick  rejoined  by  putting  a  question  on 
his  side. 

"Do  you  remember  the  famous  decision  at 
!  Doctors'  Commons,  which  established  the  mar- 
'  riage  of  Captain  Dalrymple  and  Miss  Gordon  ?" 

Mr.  Moy  was  answered.  "I  understand  you, 
Sir  Patrick,"  he  said.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  addressed  his  next  words  to  Anne.  "And, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  madam,  I  respect 
you." 

It  was  said  with  a  fervent  sincerity  of  tone 
which  wrought  the  interest  of  the  other  persons, 
who  were  still  waiting  for  enlightenment,  to  the 
highest  pitch.  Lady  Lundie  and  Captain  New- 
enden  whispered  to  each  other  anxiously.  Ar- 
nold turned  pale.  Blanche  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  once  more  to  his  niece. 

"  Some  little  time  since,"  he  said,  "1  had  oc- 
casion to  speak  to  you  of  the  scandalous  uncer- 
tainty of  the  marriage  laws  of  Scotland.  But 
for  that  uncertainty  (entirely  without  parallel  in 
any  other  civilized  country  in  Europe),  Arnold 
Brinkworth  would  never  have  occupied  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  stands  here  to-day — and  these 
proceedings  would  never  have  taken  place. 
Bear  that  fact  in  mind.  It  is  not  only  answer- 
able for  the  mischief  that  has  been  already  done, 
but  for  the  far  more  serious  evil  which  is  still  to 
come. " 

Mr.  Moy  took  a  note.     Sir  Patrick  went  on. 

"Loose  and  reckless  as  the  Scotch  law  is, 
there  happens,  however,  to  be  one  case  in  which 
the  action  of  it  has  been  confirmed  and  settled 
by  the  English  Courts.  A  written  promise  of 
marriage  exchanged  between  a  man  and  woman, 
in  Scotland,  marries  that  man  and  woman  by 
Scotch  law.  An  English  Court  of  Justice  (sit- 
ting in  judgment  on  the  case  I  have  just  men- 
tioned to  Mr.  Moy)  has  pronounced  that  law  to 
be  good — and  the  decision  has  since  been  con- 
firmed by  the  supreme  authority  of  the  House  of 
Lords.  Where  the  persons  therefore — living  in 
Scotland  at  the  time — have  promised  each  other 
marriage  in  writing,  there  is  now  no  longer  any 
doubt.  They  are  certainly,  and  lawfully,  Man 
and  Wife."  He  turned  from  his  niece,  and  ap- 
pealed to  Mr.  Moy.  "  Am  I  right  ?" 

"Quite  right,  Sir  Patrick,  as  to  the  facts.  I 
own.  however,  that  your  commentary  on  them 
surprises  me.  I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  our 
Scottish  marriage  law.  A  man  who  has  betrayed 
a  woman  under  a  promise  of  marriage  is  forced 
by  that  law  (in  the  interests  of  public  morality) 
to  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife." 

"  The  persons  here  present,  Mr.  Moy,  are  now 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


199 


about  to  see  the  moral  merit  of  the  Scotch  law  of 
marriage  (as  approved  by  England)  practically 
in  operation  before  their  own  eyes.  They  will 
judge  for  themselves  of  the  morality  (Scotch  or 
English)  which  first  forces  a  deserted  woman 
back  on  the  villain  who  has  betrayed  her,  and 
then  virtuously  leaves  her  to  bear  the  conse- 
quences. " 

With  that  answer,  he  turned  to  Anne,  and 
showed  her  the  letter,  open  in  his  hand. 

"For  the  last  time,"  he  said,  "do  you  insist 
on  my  appealing  to  this  ?" 

She  rose,  and  bowed  her  head  gravely. 

"  It  is  my  distressing  duty,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
"  to  declare,  in  this  lady's  name,  and  on  the 
faith  of  written  promises  of  marriage  exchanged 
between  the  parties,  then  residing  in  Scotland, 
that  she  claims  to  be  now — and  to  have  be_en  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  August  last — 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Uelamayn's  wedded  wife. " 

A  cry  of  horror  from  Blanche,  a  low  murmur 
of  dismay  from  the  rest,  followed  the  utterance 
of  those  words. 

There  was  a  pause  of  an  instant. 

Then  Geoffrey  rose  slowly  to  his  feet, -and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  wife  who  had  claimed 
him. 

The  spectators  of  the  terrible  scene  turned 
with  one  accord  toward  the  sacrificed  woman. 
The  look  which  Geoffrey  had  cast  on  her — the 
words  which  Geoffrey  had  spoken  to  her — were 
present  to  all  their  minds.  She  stood,  waiting 
by  Sir  Patrick's  side — her  soft  gray  eyes  resting 
sadly  and  tenderly  on  Blanche's  face.  To  see 
that  matchless  courage  and  resignation  was  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  what  had  happened.  They 
were  forced  to  look  back  at  the  man  to  possess 
their  minds  with  the  truth. 

The  triumph  of  law  mid  morality  over  him 
was  complete.  He  never  uttered  a  word.  His 
furious  temper  was  perfectly  and  fearfully  calm. 
With  the  promise  of  merciless  vengeance  written 
in  the  Devil's  writing  on  his  Devil-possessed  face, 
he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hated  woman  whom 
he  had  ruined — on  the  hated  woman  who  was 
fastened  to  him  as  his  wife. 

His  lawyer  went  over  to  the  table  at  which 
Sir  Patrick  sat.  Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

He  read  the  two  letters  contained  in  it  with 
absorbed  and  deliberate  attention.  The  mo- 
ments that  passed  before  he  lifted  his  head  from 
his  reading  seemed  like  hours.  "  Can  you  prove 
the  handwritings?"  he  asked.  "  And  prove  the 
residence  ?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  up  a  second  morsel  of  paper 
lying  ready  under  his  hand. 

"  There  are  the  names  of  persons  who  can 
prove  the  writing,  and  prove  the  residence,"  he 
replied.  "  One  of  your  two  witnesses  below  stairs 
(otherwise  useless)  can  speak  to  the  hour  at  which 
Mr.  Brinkworth  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  so  can 
prove  that  the  lady  for  whom  he  asked  was,  at 
that  moment,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  The 
indorsement  on  the  back  of  the  note-paper,  also 
referring  to  the  question  of  time,  is  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  same  witness — to  whom  I  refer 
you,  when  it  suits  your  convenience  to  question 
him." 

"  I  will  verify  the  references,  Sir  Patrick,  as  a 
matter  of  form.  In  the  mean  time,  not  to  inter- 
pose needless  and  vexatious  delay,  I  am  bound 


to  say  that  I  can  not  resist  the  evidence  of  the 
marriage." 

Having  replied  in  those  terms,  he  addressed 
himself,  with  marked  respect  and  sympathy,  to 
Anne. 

"  On  the  faith  of  the  written  promise  of  mar- 
riage exchanged  between  you  in  Scotland,"  he 
said,  "you  claim  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  as 
your  husband  ?" 

She  steadily  repeated  the  words  after  him. 

"  I  claim  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  as  my  hus- 
band." 

Mr.  Moy  appealed  to  his  client.  Geoffrey 
broke  silence  at  last. 

"Is  it  settled?"  he  asked. 

"To  all  practical  purposes,  it  is  settled." 

He  went  on,  still  looking  at  nobody  but  Anne. 

"  Has  the  law  of  Scotland  made  her  my  wife  ?" 

"The  law  of  Scotland  has  made  her  your 
wife. " 

He  asked  a  third  and  last  question. 

"Does  the  law  tell  her  to  go  where  her  hus- 
baijd  goes  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  beckoned  to 
her  to  cross  the  room  to  the  place  at  which  he 
was  standing. 

She  obeyed.  At  the  moment  when  she  took 
the  first  step  to  approach  him,  Sir  Patrick  caught 
her  hand,  and  whispered  to  her,  "Rely  on  me!" 
She  gently  pressed  his  hand  in  token  that  she 
understood  him,  and  advanced  to  Geoffrey.  At 
the  same  moment,  Blanche  rushed  between  them, 
and  flung  her  arms  around  Anne's  neck. 

"Oh,  Anne!  Anne!" 

An  hysterical  passion  of  tears  choked  her  ut- 
terance. Anne  gently  unwound  the  arms  that 
clung  round  her — gently  lifted  the  head  that  lay 
helpless  on  her  bosom. 

"  Happier  days  are  coming,  my  love,"  she  said. 
"Don't  think  of  me." 

She  kissed  her — looked  at  her — kissed  her 
again — and  placed  her  in  her  husband's  arms. 
Arnold  remembered  her  parting  words  at  Craig 
Fernie,  when  they  had  wished  each  other  good- 
night. "You  have  not  befriended  an  ungrateful 
woman.  The  day  may  yet  come  when  I  shall 
prove  it."  Gratitude  and  admiration  struggled 
in  him  which  should  utter  itself  first,  and  held 
him  speechless. 

She  bent  her  head  gently  in  token  that  she 
understood  him.  Then  she  went  on,  and  stood 
before  Geoffrey. 

"I  am  here,"  she  said  to  him.  "What  do 
you  wish  me  to  do  ?" 

A  hideous  smile  parted  his  heavy  lips.  He 
offered  her  his  arm. ' 

' '  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delamayn, "  he  said.  "  Come 
home. " 

The  picture  of  the  lonely  house,  isolated  amidst 
its  high  walls  ;  the  ill-omened  figure  of  the  dumb 
woman  with  the  stony  eyes  and  the  savage  ways 
— the  whole  scene,  as  Anne  had  pictured  it  to 
him  but  two  days  since,  rose  vivid  as  reality  be- 
fore Sir  Patrick's  mind.  "No!"  he  cried  out, 
carried  away  by  the  generous  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment. "  It  shall  not  be !" 

Geoffrey  stood  impenetrable — waiting  with  his 
offered  arm.  Pale  and  resolute,  she  lifted  her 
noble  head — called  back  the  courage  which  had 
faltered  for  a  moment — and  took  his  arm. 

He  led  her  to  the  door.     "Don't  let  Blanche 


200 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


fret  about  me,"  she  said,  simply,  to  Arnold  as 
they  went  by.  They  passed  Sir  Patrick  next. 
Once  more  his  sympathy  for  her  set  every  other 
consideration  at  defiance.  He  started  up  to  bar 
the  way  to  Geoffrey.  Geoffrey  paused,  and  look- 
ed at  Sir  Patrick  for  the  first  time. 

"The  law  tells  her  to  go  with  her  husband," 
he  said.  "The  law  forbids  you  to  part  Man 
and  Wife." 

True."  Absolutely,  undeniably  true.  The  law 
sanctioned  the  sacrifice  of  her  as  unanswerably 
as  it  had  sanctioned  the  sacrifice  of  her  mother 
before  her.  In  the  name  of  Morality,  let  him 
take  her !  In  the  interests  of  Virtue,  let  her  get 
out  of  it  if  she  can ! 

Her  husband  opened  the  door.  Mr.  Moy  laid 
his  hand  on  Sir  Patrick's  arm.  Lady  Lundie, 
Captain  Newenden,  the  London  lawyer,  all  left 
their  places;  influenced,  for  once,  by  the  same 
interest;  feeling,  for  once,  the  same  suspense. 
Arnold  followed  them,  supporting  his  wife.  For 
one  memorable  instant  Anne  looked  back  at  them 
all.  Then  she  and  her  husband  crossed  the 
threshold.  They  descended  the  stairs  together. 
The  opening  and  closing  of  the  house  door  was 
heard.  They  were  gone. 

Done,  in  the  name  of  Morality.  Done,  in  the 
interests  of  Virtue.  Done,  in  an  age  of  progress, 
and  under  the  most  perfect  government  on  the 
lace  of  the  earth. 


FIFTEENTH  SCENE.-HOLCHESTER  HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-SEVENTH. 

THE    LAST   CHANCE. 

"His  lordship  is  dangerously  ill,  Sir.  Her 
ladyship  can  receive  no  visitors." 

"Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  card  to  Lady 
Holchester.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  your 
mistress  should  be  made  acquainted — in  the  in- 
terests of  her  younger  son  —  with  something 
which  I  can  only  mention  to  her  ladyship  her- 
self." 

The  two  persons  speaking  were  Lord  Hol- 
chester's  head  servant  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 
At  that  time  barely  half  an  hour  had  passed  since 
the  close  of  the  proceedings  at  Portland  Place. 

The  servant  still  hesitated  with  the  card  in  his 
hand.  "I  shall  forfeit  my  situation,"  he  said, 
"if  I  do  it." 

"  You  will  most  assuredly  forfeit  your  situa- 
tion if  you  don't  do  it,"  returned  Sir  Patrick. 
' '  I  warn  you  plainly,  this  is  too  serious  a  matter 
to  be  trifled  with. " 

The  tone  in  which  those  words  were  spoken 
had  its  effect.  The  man  went  up  stairs  with  his 
message. 

Sir  Patrick  waited  in  the  hall.  Even  the  mo- 
mentary delay  of  entering  one  of  the  reception- 
rooms  was  more  than  he  could  endure  at  that 
moment.  Anne's  happiness  was  hopelessly  sac- 
rificed already.  The  preservation  of  her  person- 
al safety — which  Sir  Patrick  firmly  believed  to 
be  in  danger — was  the  one  service  which  it  was 
possible  to  render  to  her  now.  The  perilous  po- 
sition in  which  she  stood  toward  her  husband — 
as  an  immovable  obstacle,  while  she  lived,  be- 
tween Geoffrey  and  Mrs.  Glenarm — was  beyond 
the  reach  of  remedy.  But  it  was  still  possible 


to  prevent  her  from  becoming  the  innocent  cause 
of  Geoffrey's  pecuniary  ruin,  by  standing  in  the 
way  of  a  reconciliation  between  father  and  son. 
Resolute  to  leave  no  means  untried  of  serving 
Anne's  interests,  Sir  Patrick  had  allowed  Arnold 
and  Blanche  to  go  to  his  own  residence  in  Lon- 
don, alone,  and  had  not  even  waited  to  say  a 
farewell  word  to  any  of  the  persons  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  inquiry.  "Her  life  may  de- 
pend on  what  I  can  do  for  her  at  Holcliester 
House!"  With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  had 
left  Portland  Place.  With  that  conviction  in 
him,  he  had  sent  his  message  to  Lady  Holches- 
ter, and  was  now  waiting  for  the  reply. 

The  servant  appeared  again  on  the  stairs.  Sir 
Patrick  went  up  to  meet  him. 

"Her  ladyship  will  see  you,  Sir,  for  a  few 
minutes." 

The  door  of  an  upper  room  was  opened ;  and 
Sir  Patrick  found  himself  in  the  presence  of 
Geoffrey's  mother.  There  was  only  time  to  ob- 
serve that  she  possessed  the  remains  of  rare  per- 
sonal beauty,  and  that  she  received  her  visitor 
with  a  grace  and  courtesy  which  implied  (under 
the  circumstances)  a  considerate  regard  for  his 
position  at  the  expense  of  her  own. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me,  Sir  Pat- 
rick, on  the  subject  of  my  second  son.  I  am  in 
great  affliction.  If  you  bring  me  bad  news,  I 
will  do  my  best  to  bear  it.  May  I  trust  to  your 
kindness  not  to  keep  me  in  suspense  ?" 

"It  will  help  me  to  make  my  intrusion  as  lit- 
tle painful  as  possible  to  your  ladyship,"  replied 
Sir  Patrick,  "if  I  am  permitted  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, Have  you  heard  of  any  obstacle  to  the 
contemplated  marriage  of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn  and  Mrs.  Glenarm  ?" 

Even  that  distant  reference  to  Anne  produced 
an  ominous  change  for  the  worse  in  Lady  Ilol- 
chester's  manner. 

"I  have  heard  of  the  obstacle  to  which  yon 
allude,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Glenarm  is  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  mine.  She  has  informed  me  that 
a  person  named  Silvester,  an  impudent  adven- 
turess— " 

"  I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.  You  are  do- 
ing a  cruel  wrong  to  the  noblest  woman  I  have 
ever  met  with." 

"I  can  not  undertake,  Sir  Patrick,  to  enter 
into  your  reasons  for  admiring  her.  Her  con- 
duct toward  my  son  has,  I  repeat,  been  the  con- 
duct of  an  impudent  adventuress." 

Those  words  showed  Sir  Patrick  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  shaking  her  prejudice  against 
Anne.  He  decided  on  proceeding  at  once  to  the 
disclosure  of  the  truth. 

"  I  entreat  you  to  say  no  more," he  answered. 
"Your  ladyship  is  speaking  of  your  son's 
wife." 

" Mj*  son  has  married  Miss  Silvester?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  deadly  pale.  It  appeared,  for  an 
instant,  as  if  the  shock,  had  completely  over- 
whelmed her.  But  the  mother's  v/eakness  was 
only  momenta. 7.  Tlie  virtuous  indignation  of 
the  great  lady  had  taken  its  place  before  Sir 
Patrick  could  speak  again.  She  rose  to  termin- 
ate the  interview. 

"I  presume,"  she  said,  "that  your  errand 
here  is  at  an  end." 

Sir  Patrick  rose,  on  his  side,  resolute  to  do  the 
duty  whicli  hau  brought  him  to  the  house. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


201 


"I  am  compelled  to  trespass  on  your  lady- 
ship's attention  for  a  few  minutes  more, "  he  an- 
swered. "The  circumstances  attending  the 
marriage  of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  are  of  no 
common  importance.  I  beg  permission  (in  the 
interests  of  his  family)  to  state,  very  briefly,  what 
they  are." 

In  a  few  clear  sentences  he  narrated  what  had 
happened,  that  afternoon,  in  Portland  Place. 
Lady  Holchester  listened  with  the  steadiest  and 
coldest  attention.  So  far  as  outward  appearances 
were  concerned,  no  impression  was  produced 
upon  her. 

" Do  you  expect  me," she  asked,  "to  espouse 
the  interests  Of  a  person  who  has  prevented  my 
son  from  marrying  the  .lady  of  his  choice,  and  of 
mine?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  unhappily,  has  that 
reason  for  resenting  his  wife's  innocent  interfer- 
ence with  interests  of  considerable  importance  to 
him,"  returned  Sir  Patrick.  "  I  request  your 
ladyship  to  consider  whether  it  is  desirable — in 
view  of  your  son's  conduct  in  the  future — to  al- 
low his  wife  to  stand  in  the  doubly  perilous  re- 
lation toward  him  of  being  also  a  cause  of 
estrangement  between  his  father  and  himself. " 

He  had  put  it  with  scrupulous  caution.  But 
Lady  Holchester  understood  what  he  had  re- 
frained from  saying  as  well  as  what  he  had  act- 
ually said.  She  had  hitherto  remained  standing 
— she  now  sat  down  again.  There  was  a  visible 
impression  produced  on  her  at  last. 

"  In  Lord  Holchester's  critical  state  of  health," 
she  answered,  "I  decline  to  take  the  responsibil- 
ity of  telling  him  what  you  have  just  told  me. 
My  own  influence  has  been  uniformly  exerted  in 
my  son's  favor — as  long  as  my  interference  could 
be  productive  of  any  good  result.  The  time  for 
my  interference  has  passed.  Lord  Holchester 
has  altered  his  will  this  morning.  I  was  not 
present ;  and  I  have  not  yet  been  informed  of 
what  has  been  done.  Even  if  I  knew — " 

"  Your  ladyship  would  naturally  decline,"  said 
Sir  Patrick,  "to  communicate  the  information 
to  a  stranger." 

"Certainly.  At  the  same  time,  after  what 
you  have  said,  I  do  not  feel  justified  in  deciding 
on  this  matter  entirely  by  myself.  One  of  Lord 
Holchester's  executors  is  now  in  the  house. 
There  can  be  no  impropriety  in  your  seeing  him 
— if  you  wish  it.  You  are  at  liberty  to  say,  from 
me,  that  I  leave  it  entirely  to  his  discretion  to 
decide  what  ought  to  be  done." 

"I  gladly  accept  your  ladyship's  proposal." 

Lady  Holchester  rang  the  bell  at  her  side. 

"Take  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  to  Mr.  March- 
wood,"  she  said  to  the  servant. 

Sir  Patrick  started.  The  name  was  familiar 
to  him,  as  the  name  of  a  friend. 

"  Mr.  Marchwood  of  Hurlbeck?"  he  asked. 

' '  The  same. " 

With  that  brief  answer,  Lady  Holchester  dis- 
missed her  visitor.  Following  the  sen-ant  to  the 
other  end  of  the  corridor,  Sir  Patrick  was  con- 
ducted into  a  small  room — the  ante-chamber  to 
the  bedroom  in  which  Lord  Holchester  lay.  The 
door  of  communication  was  closed.  A  gentle- 
man sat  writing  at  a  table  near  the  window.  He 
rose,  and  held  out  his  hand,  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise, when  the  servant  announced  Sir  Patrick's 
name.  This  was  Mr.  Marchwood. 

After  the  first  explanations  had  been  given, 
N 


Sir  Patrick  patiently  reverted  to  the  object  of  his 
visit  to  Holchester  House.  On  the  first  occa- 
sion when  he  mentioned  Anne's  name  'he  ob- 
served that  Mr.  Marchwood  became,  from  that 
moment,  specially  interested  in  what  he  was  say- 
ing. 

"Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
lady?"  he  asked. 

"  I  only  know  her  as  the  cause  of  a  very  strange 
proceeding,  this  morning,  in  that  room."  He 
pointed  to  Lord  Holchester's  bedroom  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Are  you  at  liberty  to  mention  what  the  pro- 
ceeding was  ?" 

"  Hardly — even  to  an  old  friend  like  you — un- 
less I  felt  it  a  matter  of  duty,  on  my  part,  to 
state  the  circumstances.  Pray  go  on  with  what 
you  were  saying  to  me.  You  were  on  the  point 
of  telling  me  what  brought  you  to  this  house." 

Without  a  word  more  of  preface,  Sir  Patrick 
told  him  the  news  of  Geoffrey's  marriage  to 
Anne. 

"Married!"  cried  Mr.  Marchwood.  "Are 
you  sure  of  what  you  say  ?" 

"  I  am  one 'of  the  witnesses  of  the  marriage." 

"Good  Heavens!  And  Lord  Holchester's 
lawyer  has  left  the  house!" 

' '  Can  I  replace  him  ?  Have  I,  by  any  chance, 
justified  you  in  telling  me  what  happened  this 
morning  in  the  next  room  ?" 

"Justified  me?  You  have  left  me  no  other 
alternative.  The  doctors  are  all  agreed  in  dread- 
ing apoplexy — his  lordship  may  die  at  any  mo- 
ment. In  the  lawyer's  absence,  I  must  take  it 
on  myself.  Here  are  the  facts.  There  is  the 
codicil  to  Lord  Holchester's  Will  which  is  still 
unsigned." 

' '  Relating  to  his  second  son  ?" 

"Relating  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  and  giving 
him  (when  it  is  once  executed)  a  liberal  provi- 
sion for  life. " 

' '  What  is  the  object  in  the  way  of  his  execut- 
ing it  ?" 

"  The  lady  whom  you  hare  just  mentioned  to 
me." 

"Anne  Silvester!" 

"Anne  Silvester — now  (as  you  tell  me)  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  Delamayn.  I  can  only  explain  the 
thing  very  imperfectly.  There  are  certain  pain- 
ful circumstances  associated  in  his  lordship's 
memory  with  this  lady,  or  with  some  member 
of  her  family.  We  can  only  gather  that  he  did 
something — in  the  early  part  of  his  professional 
career — which  was  strictly  within  the  limits  of 
his  duty,  but  which  apparently  led  to  very  sad 
results.  Some  days  since  he  unfortunately  heard 
(either  through  Mrs.  Glenarm  or  through  Mrs. 
Julius  Delamayn)  of  Miss  Silvester's  appearance 
at  Swanhaven  Lodge.  No  remark  on  the  subject 
escaped  him  at  the  time.  It  was  only  this  morn- 
ing, when  the  codicil  giving  the  legacy  to  Geoffrey 
was  waiting  to  be  executed,  that  his  real  feeling 
in  the  matter  came  out.  To  our  astonishment, 
he  refused  to  sign  it.  'Find  Anne  Silvester' 
(was  the  only  answer  we  could  get  from  him) ; 
'  and  bring  her  to  my  bedside.  You  all  say  my 
son  is  guiltless  of  injuring  her.  I  am  lying  on 
my  death-bed.  I  have  serious  reasons  of  my  own 
— I  owe  it  to  the  memory  of  the  dead — to  assure 
myself  of  the  truth.  If  Anne  Silvester  herself 
acquits  him  of  having  wronged  her,  I  will  pro- 
vide for  Geoffrey.  Not  otherwise.'  We  went 


202 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


the  length  of  reminding  him  that  he  might  die 
before  Miss  Silvester  could  be  found.  Our  in- 
terference had  but  one  result.  He  desired  the 
lawyer  to  add  a  second  codicil  to  the  Will — 
which  he  executed  on  the  spot.  It  directs  his, 
executors  to  inquire  into  the  relations  that  have 
actually  existed  between  Anne  Silvester  and  his 
younger  son.  If  we  find  reason  to  conclude  that 
Geoffrey  has  gravely  wronged  her,  we  are  direct- 
ed to  pay  her  a  legacy — provided  that  she  is  a 
single  woman  at  the  time." 

"And  her  marriage  violates  the  provision!' 
exclaimed  Sir  Patrick. 

"  Yes.  The  codicil  actually  executed  is  now 
worthless.  And  the  other  codicil  remains  un- 
signed until  the  lawyer  can  produce  Miss  Silves- 
ter. He  has  left  the  house  to  apply  to  Geoffrey 
at  Fulham,  as  the  only  means  at  our  disposal  of 
finding  the  lady.  Some  hours  have  passed — 
and  he  has  not  yet  returned. " 

"It  is  useless  to  wait  for  him,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "While  the  lawyer  was  on  his  way  to 
Fulham,  Lord  Holchester's  son  was  on  his  way 
to  Portland  Place.  This  is  even  more  serious 
than  you  suppose.  Tell  me,  what  under  less 
pressing  circumstances  I  should  have  no  right  to 
ask.  Apart  from  the  unexecuted  codicil,  what 
is  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  position  in  the  will?" 

"  He  is  not  even  mentioned  in  it." 

" Have  you  got  the  will?" 

Mr.  Marchwood  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  took 
it  out. 

Sir  Patrick  instantly  rose  from  his  chair. 
"No  waiting  for  the  lawyer!"  he  repeated,  ve- 
hemently. "  This  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Lady  Holchester  bitterly  resents  her  son's  mar- 
riage. She  speaks  and  feels  as  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  Do  you  think  Lord  Holchester  would 
take  the  same  view,  if  he  knew  of  it  ?" 

"It  depends  entirely  on  the  circumstances." 

"Suppose  I  informed  him — as  I  inform  you 
in  confidence — that  his  son  has  gravely  wronged 
Miss  Silvester  ?  And  suppose  I  followed  that  up 
by  telling  him  that  his  son  has  made  atonement 
by  marrying  her  ?" 

"After  the  feeling  that  he  has  shown  in  the 
matter,  I  believe  he  would  sign  the  codicil." 

"Then,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  see  him!" 

"I  must  speak  to  the  doctor." 

"Do  it  instantly!" 

With  the  will  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Marchwood 
advanced  to  the  bedroom  door.  It  was  opened 
from  within  before  he  could  get  to  it.  The  doc- 
tor appeared  on  the  threshold.  He  held  up  his 
hand  warningly  when  Mr.  Marchwood  attempted 
to  speak  to  him. 

"  Go  to  Lady  Holchester,"  he  said.  "It's  all 
over. " 

"Dead?" 

"Dead." 


SIXTEENTH  SCENE SALT  PATCH. 

CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-EIGHTH. 

THE   PLACE. 

EARLY  in  the  present  century  it  was  generally 
reported  among  the  neighbors  of  one  Reuben 
Limbrick  that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a 
comfortable  little  fortune  by  dealing  in  Salt. 

His  place  of  abode  was  in  Staffordshire,  on  a 
morsel  of  freehold  land  of  his  own — appropriately 


called  Salt  Patch.  Without  being  absolutely  a 
miser,  he  lived  in  the  humblest  manner ,  saw 
very  little  company ;  skillfully  invested  his  mon- 
ey ;  and  persisted  in  remaining  a  single  man. 

Toward  eighteen  hundred  and  forty  he  first 
felt  the  approach  of  the  chronic  malady  which 
ultimately  terminated  his  life.  After  trying  what 
the  medical  men  of  his  own  locality  could  do  for 
him,  with  very  poor  success,  he  met  by  accident 
with  a  doctor  living  in  the  western  suburbs  of 
London,  who  thoroughly  understood  his  com- 
plaint. After  some  journeying  backward  and 
forward  to  consult  this  gentleman,  he  decided 
on  retiring  from  business,  and  on  taking  up  his 
abode  within  an  easy  distance  of  his  medical  man. 
Finding  a  piece  of  freehold  land  to  be  sold  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Fulham,  he  bought  it,  and 
had  a  cottage  residence  built  on  it,  under  his  own 
directions.  Pie  surrounded  the  whole — being  a 
man  singularly  jealous  of  any  intrusion  on  his 
retirement,  or  of  any  chance  observation  of  his 
ways  and  habits — with  a  high  wall,  which  cost  a 
large  sum  of  money,  and  which  was  rightly  con- 
sidered a  dismal  and  hideous  object  by  the  neigh- 
bors. When  the  new  residence  was  completed, 
he  called  it  after  the  name  of  the  place  in  Staf- 
fordshire where  he  had  made  his  money,  and 
where  he  had  lived  during  the  happiest  period  of 
his  life.  His  relatives,  failing  to  understand  that 
a  question  of  sentiment  was  involved  in  this  pro- 
ceeding, appealed  to  hard  facts,  and  reminded 
him  that  there  were  no  salt  mines  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Reuben  Limbrick  answered,  "So 
much  the  worse  for  the  neighborhood" — and  per- 
sisted in  calling  his  property,  "  Salt  Patch." 

The  cottage  was  so  small  that  it  looked  quite 
lost  in  the  large  garden  all  round  it.  There  was 
a  ground-floor  and  a  floor  above  it — and  that  was 
all. 

On  either  side  of  the  passage,  on  the  lower 
floor,  were  two  rooms.  At  the  right-hand  side, 
on  entering  by  the  front-door,  there  was  a  kitch- 
en, with  its  outhouses  attached.  The  room  next 
to  the  kitchen  looked  into  the  garden.  In  Reu- 
ben Limbrick's  time  it  was  called  the  study, 
and  contained  a  small  collection  of  books  and  a 
large  store  of  fishing-tackle.  On  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  passage  there  was  a  drawing-room 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  communi- 
cating with  a  dining-room  in  the  front.  On  the 
upper  floor  there  were  five  bedrooms — two  on 
one  side  of  the  passage,  corresponding  in  size 
ivith  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing-room  be- 
low, but  not  opening  into  each  other ;  three  on 
the  other  side  of  the  passage,  consisting  of  one 
larger  room  in  front,  and  of  two  small  rooms  at 
the  back.  All  these  were  solidly  and  completely 
furnished.  Money  had  not  been  spared,  and 
workmanship  had  not  been  stinted.  It  was  all 
substantial — and,  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  it 
was  all  ugly. 

The  situation  of  Salt  Patch  was  lonely.  The 
lands  of  the  market-gardeners  separated  it  from 
other  houses.  Jealously  surrounded  by  its  own 
ligh  walls,  the  cottage  suggested,  even  to  the 
most  unimaginative  persons,  the  idea  of  an  asy- 
um  or  a  prison.  Reuben  Limbrick's  relatives, 
occasionally  coming  to  stay  with  him,  found  the 
jlace  prey  on  their  spirits,  and  rejoiced  when 
he  time  came  for  going  home  again.  They 
vere  never  pressed  to  stay  against  their  will. 
L\euben  Limbrick  was  not  a  hospitable  or  a  socia- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


203 


blc  man.  lie  set  very  little  value  on  human 
sympathy,  in  his  attacks  of  illness ;  and  he  bore 
congratulations  impatiently,  ia  his  intervals  of 
health.  "I  care  about  nothing  but  fishing,"  he 
used  to  say.  "I  find  my  dog  very  good  com- 
pany. And  I  am  quite  happy  as  long  as  I  am 
free  from  pain." 

On  his  death-bed,  he  divided  his  money  justly 
enough  among  his  relations.  The  only  part  of 
his  Will  which  exposed  itself  to  unfavorable  crit- 
icism, was  a  clause  conferring  a  legacy  on  one  of 
his  sisters  (then  a  widow)  who  had  estranged 
herself  from  her  family  by  marrying  beneath  her. 
The  family  agreed  in  considering  this  unhappy 
person  as  undeserving  of  notice  or  benefit.  Her 
name  was  Hester  Dethridge.  It  proved  to  be  a 
great  aggravation  of  Hester's  offenses,  in  the 
eyes  of  Hester's  relatives,  when  it  was  discovered 
that  she  possessed  a  life-interest  in  Salt  Patch, 
and  an  income  of  two  hundred  a  year. 

Not  visited  by  the  surviving  members  of  her 
family,  living,  literally,  by  herself  in  the  world, 
Hester  decided,  in  spite  of  her  comfortable  little 
income,  on  letting  lodgings.  The  explanation 
of  this  strange  conduct  which  she  had  written  on 
her  slate,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  from  Anne,  was 
the  true  one.  ' '  I  have  not  got  a  friend  in  the 
world :  I  dare  not  live  alone. "  In  that  desolate 
situation,  and  with  that  melancholy  motive,  she 
put  the  house  into  an  agent's  hands.  The  first 
person  in  want  of  lodgings  whom  the  agent  sent 
to  see  the  place  was  Perry  the  trainer  ;  and  Hes- 
ter's first  tenant  was  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

The  rooms  which  the  landlady  reserved  for 
herself  were  the  kitchen,  the  room  next  to  it, 
which  had  once  been  her  brother's  "  study,"  and 
the  two  small  back  bedrooms  up  stairs — one  for 
herself,  the  other  for  the  servant-girl  whom  she 
employed  to  help  her.  The  whole  of  the  rest  of 
the  cortage  was  to  let.  It  was  more  than  the 
trainer  wanted;  but  Hester  Dethridge  refused 
to  dispose  of  her  lodgings — either  as  to  the  rooms 
occupied,  or  as  to  the  period  for  which  they  were 
to  be  taken — on  other  than  her  own  terms.  Perry 
had  no  alternative  but  to  lose  the  advantage  of 
the  garden  as  a  private  training-ground,  or  to 
submit. 

Being  only  two  in  number,  the  lodgers  had 
three  bedrooms  to  choose  from.  Geoffrey  estab- 
lished himself  in-  the  back-room,  over  the  draw- 
ing-room. Perry  chose  the  front-room,  placed 
on  the  other  sicle  of  the  cottage,  next  to  the  two 
smaller  apartments  occupied  by  Hester  and  her 
maid.  Under  this  arrangement,  the  front  bed- 
room, on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage — next 
to  the  room  in  which  Geoffrey  slept — was  left 
empty,  and  was  called,  for  the  time  being,  the 
spare  room.  As  for  the  lower  floor,  the  athlete 
and  his  trainer  ate  their  meals  in  the  dining- 
room  ;  and  left  the  drawing-room,  as  a  needless 
luxury,  to  take  care  of  itself. 

The  Foot-Race  once  over,  Perry's  business  at 
the  cottage  was  at  an  end.  His  empty  bedroom 
became  a  second  spare  room.  The  term  for 
which  the  lodgings  had  been  taken  was  then  still 
unexpired.  On  the  day  after  the  race  Geoffrey 
had  to  choose  between  sacrificing  the  money,  or 
remaining  in  the  lodgings  by  himself,  with  two 
^pare  bedrooms  on  his  hands,  and  with  a  drawing- 
^•oom  for  the  reception  of  his  visitors — who  called 
with  pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  whose  idea  of 
hospitality  was  a  pot  of  beer  in  the  garden. 


To  use  his  own  phrase,  he  was  "  out  of  sorts." 
A  sluggish  reluctance  to  face  change  of  any  kind 
possessed  him.  He  decided  on  staying  at  Salt 
Patch  until  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glenarm  (which 
he  then  looked  upon  as  a  certainty)  obliged  him 
to  alter  his  habits  completely,  once  for  all. 
From  Fulham  he  had  gone,  the  next  day,  to  at- 
tend the  inquiry  in  Portland  Place.  And  to 
Fulham  he  returned,  when  he  brought  the  wife 
who  had  been  forced  upon  him  to  her  "  home." 

Such  was  the  position  of  the  tenant,  and  such 
were  the  arrangements  of  the  interior  of  the  cot- 
tage, on  the  memorable  evening  when  Anne  Sil- 
vester entered  it  as  Geoffrey's  wife. 


CHAPTER  THE  FORTY-NINTH. 

THE   NIGHT. 

ON  leaving  Lady  Lundie's  house,  Geoffrey 
called  the  first  empty  cab  that  passed  him.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  signed  to  Anne  to  enter 
the  vehicle.  She  obeyed  him  mechanically.  He 
placed  himself  on  the  seat  opposite  to  her,  and 
told  the  man  to  drive  to  Fulham. 

The  cab  started  on  its  journey ;  husband  and 
wife  preserving  absolute  silence.  Anne  laid  her 
head  back  wearily,  and  closed  her  eyes.  Her 
strength  had  broken  down  under  the  effort  which 
had  sustained  her  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  the  inquiry.  Her  power  of  thinking  was  gone. 
She  felt  nothing,  knew  nothing,  feared  nothing. 
Half  in  faintness,  half  in  slumber,  she  had  lost 
all  sense  of  her  own  terrible  position  before  the 
first  five  minutes  of  the  journey  to  Fulham  had 
come  to  an  end. 

Sitting  opposite  to  her,  savagely  self-concen- 
trated in  his  own  thoughts,  Geoffrey  roused  him- 
self on  a  sudden.  An  idea  had  sprung  to  life  in 
his  sluggish  brain.  He  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window  of  the  cab,  and  directed  the  driver  to* 
turn  back,  and  go  to  an  hotel  near  the  Great 
Northern  Railway. 

Resuming  his  seat,  he  looked  furtively  at  Anne. 
She  neither  moved  nor  opened  her  eyes — she  was, 
to  all  appearance,  unconscious  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. He  observed  her  attentively.  Was  she 
really  ill  ?  Was  the  time  coming  when  he  would 
be  freed  from  her  ?  He  pondered  over  that  ques- 
tion— watching  her  closely.  Little  by  little  the 
vile  hope  in  him  slowly  died  away,  and  a  vile 
suspicion  took  its  place.  What,  if  this  appear- 
ance of  illness  was  a  pretense?  What,  if  she 
was  waiting  to  throw  him  off  his  guard,  and  es- 
cape from  him  at  the  first  opportunity  ?  He  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window  again,  and  gave  an- 
other order  to  the  driver.  The  cab  diverged 
from  the  direct  route,  and  stopped  at  a  public 
house  in  Holborn,  kept  (under  an  assumed  name) 
by  Perry  the  trainer. 

Geoffrey  wrote  a  line  in  pencil  on  his  card,  and 
sent  it  into  the  house  by  the  driver.  After  wait- 
ing some  minutes,  a  lad  appeared  and^tonched 
his  hat.  Geoffrey  spoke  to  him,  out  of 'the  win- 
dow, in  an  under-tone.  The  lad  took  his  place 
on  the  box  by  the  driver.  The  cab  turned  back, 
and  took  the  road  to  the  hotel  near  the  Great 
Northern  Railway. 

Arrived  at  the  place,  Geoffrey  posted  the  lad 
close  at  the  door  of  the  cab,  and  pointed  to  Anne, 
still  reclining  with  closed  eyes ;  still,  as  it  seemed, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


too  weary  to  lift  her  head,  too  faint  to  notice  any 
tiling  that  happened.  "If  she  attempts  to  get 
out,  stop  her,  and  send  for  me."  With  those 
parting  directions  he  entered  the  hotel,  and  asked 
for  Mr.  Moy. 

Mr.  Moy  was  in  the  house ;  he  had  just  re- 
turned from  Portland  Place.  He  rose,  and 
bowed  coldly,  when  Geoffrey  was  shown  into 
his  sitting-room. 

"  What  is  your  business  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"I've  had  a  notion  come  into  my  head,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "And  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
it  directly." 

"  I  must  request  you  to  consult  some  one  else. 
Consider  me,  if  you  please,  as  having  withdrawn 
from  all  further  connection  with  your  affairs." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  in  stolid  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  leave 
me  in  the  lurch  ?"  he  asked. 

' '  I  mean  to  say  that  I  will  take  no  fresh  step 
in  any  business  of  yours,"  answered  Mr.  Moy, 
firmly.  "As  to  the  future,  I  have  ceased  to  be 
your  legal  adviser.  As  to  the  past,  I  shall  care- 
fully complete  the  formal  duties  toward  you. 
which  remain  to  be  done.  Mrs.  Inchbare  and 
Bishopriggs  are  coming  here  by  appointment, 
at  six  this  evening,  to  receive  the  money  due  to 
them  before  they  go  back.  I  shall  return  to 
Scotland  myself  by  the  night  mail.  The  per- 
sons referred  to,  in  the  matter  of  the  promise 
of  marriage,  by  Sir  Patrick,  are  all  in  Scotland. 
I  will  take  their  evidence  as  to  the  handwriting, 
and  as  to  the  question  of  residence  in  the  North 
— and  I  will  send  it  to  you  in  written  form. 
That  done,  I  shall  have  done  all.  I  decline  to 
advise  you  in  any  future  step  M'hich  you  propose 
to  take. " 

After  reflecting  for  a  moment,  Geoffrey  put  a 
last  question. 

"  You  said  Bishopriggs  and  the  woman  would 
be  here  at  six  this  evening. " 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  are  they  to  be  found  before  that?" 

Mr.  Moy  wrote  a  few  words  on  a  slip  of  paper, 
and  handed  it  to  Geoffrey.  "  At  their  lodgings," 
he  said.  "  There  is  the  address." 

Geoffrey  took  the  address,  and  left  the  room. 
Lawyer  and  client  parted  without  a  word  on  ei- 
ther side. 

Returning  to  the  cab,  Geoffrey  found  the  lad 
steadily  waiting  at  his  post. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened?" 

"The  lady  hasn't  moved,  Sir,  since  you  left 
her. " 

"Is  Perry  at  the  public  house?" 

"Not  at  this  time,  Sir." 

' '  I  want  a  lawyer.  Do  you  know  who  Perry's 
lawyer  is  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"And  where  he  is  to  be  found ?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"Get  up  on  the  box,  and  tell  the  man  where 
to  drive  to." 

The  cab  went  on  again  along  the  Euston  Road, 
and  stopped  at  a  house  in  a  side-street,  with  a 
professional  brass  plate  on  the  door.  The  lad 
got  down,  and  came  to  the  window. 

"Here  it  is,  Sir." 

"  Knock  at  the  door,  and  see  if  he  is  at 
home." 

He  proved  to  be  at  home.  Geoffrey  entered 
the  house,  leaving  his  emissary  once  more  on 


the  watch.  The  lad  noticed  that  the  lady  moved 
this  time.  She  shivered  as  if  she  felt  cold — 
opened  her  eyes  for  a  moment  wearily,  and 
looked  out  through  the  window — sighed,  and 
sank  back  again  in  the  comer  of  the  cab. 

After  an  absence  of  more  than  half  an  hour 
Geoffrey  came  out  again.  His  interview  with 
Perry's  lawyer  appeared  to  have  relieved  his  mind 
of  something  that  had  oppressed  it.  He  once 
more  ordered  the  driver  to  go  to  Fulham — open- 
ed the  door  to  get  into  the  cab — then,  as  it  seem- 
ed, suddenly  recollected  himself — and,  calling 
the  lad  down  from  the  box,  ordered  him  to  get 
inside,  and  took  his  place  by  the  driver. 

As  the  cab  started  he  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der at  Anne  through  the  front  window.  "  Well 
worth  trying,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It's  the 
way  to  be  even  with  her.  And  it's  the  way  to 
be  free." 

They  arrived  at  the  cottage.  Possibly,  repose 
had  restored  Anne's  strength.  Possibly,  the  sight 
of  the  place  had  roused  the  instinct  of  self-pres- 
ervation in  her  at  last.  To  Geoffrey's  surprise, 
she  left  the  cab  without  assistance.  When  he 
opened  the  wooden  gate,  with  his  own  key,  she 
recoiled  from  it,  and  looked  at  him  for  the  first 
time. 

He  pointed  to  the  entrance. 

"  Go  in,"  he  said. 

"  On  what  terms  ?"  she  asked,  without  stirring 
a  step. 

Geoffrey  dismissed  the  cab ;  and  sent  the  lad 
in,  to  wait  for  further  orders.  These  things 
done,  he  answered  her  loudly  and  brutally  the 
moment  they  were  alone  : 

"On  any  terms  I  please." 

"Nothing  will  induce  me,"  she  said,  firmly, 
' '  to  live  with  you  as  your  wife.  You  may  kill 
me — but  you  will  never  bend  me  ta  that. " 

He  advanced  a  step — opened  his  lips — and 
suddenly  checked  himself.  He  waited  a  while, 
turning  something  over  in  his  mind.  When  he 
spoke  again,  it  was  with  marked  deliberation  and 
constraint — with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  re- 
peating words  put  into  his  lips,  or  words  pre- 
pared beforehand. 

' '  I  have  something  to  tell  you  in  the  presence 
of  witnesses,"  he  said.  "I  don't  ask  you,  or 
wish  you,  to  see  me  in  the  cottage  alone.'' 

She  started  at  the  .change  in  him.  His  sud- 
den composure,  and  his  sudden  nicety  in  the 
choice  of  words,  tried  her  courage  far  -more  se- 
verely than  it  had  been  tried  by  his  violence 
of  the  moment  before. 

He  waited  her  decision,  still  pointing  through 
the  gate.  She  trembled  a  little — steadied  her- 
self again — and  went  in.  The  lad,  waiting  in 
the  front  garden,  followed  her. 

He  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door,  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  passage.  She  entered  the 
room.  The  servant-girl  appeared.  He  said  to 
her,  ' '  Fetch  Mrs.  Dethridge ;  and  come  back 
with  her  yourself."  Then  he  went  into  the 
room  ;  the  lad,  by  his  own  directions,  following 
him  in  ;  and  the  door  being  left  wide  open. 

Hester  Dethridge  came  out  from  the  kitchen 
with  the  girl  behind  her.  At  the  sight  of  Anne, 
a  faint  and  momentary  change  passed  over  the 
stony  stillness  of  her  face.  A  dull  light  glim- 
mered in  her  eyes.  She  slowly  nodded  her  head.  * 
A  dumb  sound,  vaguely  expressive  of  something 
like  exultation  or  relief,  escaped  her  lips. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


205 


Geoffrey  spoke — once  more,  with  marked  de- 
liberation and  constraint;  once  more,  with  the 
air  of  repeating  something  which  had  been  pre- 
pared beforehand.  He  pointed  to  Anne. 

"  This  woman  is  my  wife, "  he  said.  "  In  the 
presence  of  you  three,  as  witnesses,  I  tell  her  that 
I  don't  forgive  her.  I  have  brought  her  here — 
having  no  other  place  in  which  I  can  trust  her  to 
be — to  wait  the  issue  of  proceedings,  undertaken 
in  defense  of  my  own  honor  and  good  name. 
While  she  stays  here,  she  will  live  separate  from 
me,  in  a  room  of  her  own.  If  it  is  necessary  for 
me  to  communicate  with  her,  I  shall  only  see 
her  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person.  Do  you 
all  understand  me?" 

Hester  Dethridge  bowed  her  head.  The  other 
two  answered,  "Yes" — and  turned  to  go  out. 
Anne  rose.  At  a  sign  from  Geoffrey,  the  servant 
and  the  lad  waited  in  the  room  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  say. 

"I  know  nothing  in  my  conduct,"  she  said, 
addressing  herself  to  Geoffrey,  "  which  justifies 
you  in  telling  these  people  that  you  don't  forgive 
me.  Those  words  applied  by  you  to  me  are  an 
insult.  I  am  equally  ignorant  of  what  you  mean 
when  you  speak  of  defending  your  good  name. 
All  I  understand  is,  that  we  are  separate  persons 
in  this  house,  and  that  I  am  to  have  a  room  of 
my  own.  I  am  grateful,  whatever  your  motives 
may  be,  for  the  arrangement  that  you  have  pro- 
posed. Direct  one  of  these  two  women  to  show 
me  my  room." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  Hester  Dethridge. 

"Take  her  up  stairs,"  he  said ;  "and  let  her 
pick  which  room  she  pleases.  Give  her  what  she 
wants  to  eat  or  drink.  Bring  down  the  address 
of  the  place  where  her  luggage  is.  The  lad  here 
will  go  back  by  railway,  and  fetch  it.  That's 
all.  Be  off." 

Hester  went  out.  Anne  followed  her  up  the 
stairs.  In  the  passage  on  the  upper  floor  she 
stopped.  The  dull  light  flickered  again  for  a 
moment  in  her  eyes.  She  wrote  on  her  slate, 
and  held  it  up  to  Anne,  with  these  words  on 
it:  "I  knew  you  would  come  back.  It's  not 
over  yet  between  you  and  him."  Anne  made 
no  reply.  She  went  on  writing,  with  something 
faintly  like  a  smile  on  her  thin,  colorless  lips.  "I 
know  something  of  bad  husbands.  Yours  is  as 
bad  a  one  as  ever  stood  in  shoe?.  He'll  try  you. " 
Anne  made  an  effort  to  stop  her.  "Don't  you 
see  how  tired  I  am  ?"  she  said,  gently.  Hester 
Dethridge  dropped  the  slate — looked  with  a 
steady  and  uncompassionate  attention  in  Anne's 
face — nodded  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I 
see  it  now" — and  led  the  way  into  one  of  the 
empty  rooms. 

It  was  the  front  bedroom,  over  the  drawing- 
room.  The  first  glance  round  showed  it  to  be 
scrupulously  clean,  and  solidly  and  tastelessly 
furnished.  The  hideous  paper  on  the  walls,  the 
hideous  carpet  on  the  floor,  were  both  of  the  best 
quality.  The  great  heavy  mahogany  bedstead, 
with  its  curtains  hanging  from  a  hook  in  the  ceil- 
ing, and  with  its  clumsily  carved  head  and  foot 
on  the  same  level,  offered  to  the  view  the  anom- 
alous spectacle  of  French  design  overwhelmed 
by  English  execution.  The  most  noticeable 
thing  in  the  room  was  the  extraordinary  atten- 
tion which  had  been  given  to  the  defense  of  the 
door.  Besides  the  usual  lock  and  key,  it  pos- 
sessed two  solid  bolts,  fastening  inside  at  the  top 


and  the  bottom.  It  had  been  one  among  the 
many  eccentric  sides  of  Reuben  Limbrick's  char- 
acter to  live  in  perpetual  dread  of  thieves  break- 
ing into  his  cottage  at  night.  All  the  outer  doors 
and  all  the  window  shutters  were  solidly  sheathed 
with  iron,  and  had  alarm-bells  attached  to  them 
on  a  new  principle.  Every  one  of  the  bedrooms 
possessed  its  two  bolts  on  the  inner  side  of  the 
door.  And,  to  crown  all,  on  the  roof  of  the  cot- 
tage was  a  little  belfry,  containing  a  bell  large 
enough  to  make  itself  heard  at  the  Fulham  po- 
lice station.  In  Reuben  Limbrick's  time  the  rope 
had  communicated  with  his  bedroom.  It  hung 
now  against  the  wall,  in  the  passage  outside. 

Looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  objects 
around  her,  Anne's  eyes  rested  on  the  partition 
wall  which  divided  the  room  from  the  room  next 
to  it.  The  wall  was  not  broken  by  a  door  of 
communication ;  it  had  nothing  placed  against 
it  but  a  wash-hand-stand  and  two  chairs. 

"Who  sleeps  in  the  next  room?"  said  Anne. 

Hester  Dethridge  pointed  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room in  which  they  had  left  Geoffrey.  Geof- 
frey slept  in  the  room. 

Anne  led  the  way  out  again  into  the  passage. 

"  Show  me  the  second  room,"  she  said. 

The  second  room  was  also  in  front  of  the 
house.  More  ugliness  (of  first-rate  quality)  in 
the  paper  and  the  carpet.  Another  heavy  ma- 
hogany bedstead ;  but,  this  time,  a  bedstead  with 
a  canopy  attached  to  the  head  of  it — supporting 
its  OAVn  curtains.  Anticipating  Anne's  inquiry, 
on  this  occasion,  Hester  looked  toward  the  next 
room,  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  and  pointed  to 
herself.  Anne  at  once  decided  on  choosing  the 
second  room  ;  it  was  the  farthest  from  Geoffrey. 
Hester  Availed  while  she  wrote  the  address  at 
which  her  luggage  would  be  found  (at  the  house 
of  the  musical  agent),  and  then,  having  applied  for 
and  received  her  directions  as  to  the  evening  meal 
which  she  should  send  up  stairs,  quitted  the  room. 

Left  alone,  Anne  secured  the  door,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  bed.  Still  too  weary  to  exert  her 
mind,  still  physically  incapable  of  realizing  the 
helplessness  and  the  peril  of  her  position,  she 
opened  a  locket  that  hung  from  her  neck,  kissed 
the  portrait  of  her  mother  and  the  portrait  of 
Blanche  placed  opposite  to  each  other  inside  it, 
and  sank  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 

Meanwhile  Geoffrey  repeated  his  final  orders 
to  the  lad,  at  the  cottage  gate. 

"When  you  have  got  the  luggage,  you  are  to 
go  to  the  lawyer.  If  he  can  come  here  to-night, 
you  will  show  him  the  way.  If  he  can't  come, 
you  will  bring  me  a  letter  from  him.  Make  any 
mistake  in  this,  and  it  will  be  the  worst  day's 
work  you  ever  did  in  your  life.  Away  witli  you, 
and  don't  lose  the  train. " 

The  lad  ran  off.  Geoffrey  waited,  looking 
after  him,  and  turning  over  in  his  mind  wb.at.hucl 
been  done  up  to  that  time. 

"All  right,  so  far,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
didn't  ride  in  the  cab  with  her.  I  told  her  be- 
fore witnesses  I  didn't  forgive  her,  and  why  I 
had  her  in  the  house.  I've  put  her  in  a  room  by 
herself.  And  if  I  must  see  her,  I  see  her  who 
Hester  Dethridge  for  a  witness.  My  part's  done 
— let  the  lawyer  do  his." 

He  strolled  round  into  the  back  garden,  and 
lit  his  pipe.  After  a  while,  as  the  twilight  faded, 
he  saw  a  light  in  Hester's  sitting-room  on  the 
ground-floor.  He  went  to  the  window.  Hester 


206 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


and  the  servant-girl  were  both  there  at  work. 
"Well?"  he  asked.  "How  about  the  woman 
up  stairs  ?"  Hester's  slate,  aided  by  the  girl's 
tongue,  told  him  all  about  "the  woman"  that 
was  to  be  told.  They  had  taken  up  to  her  room 
tea  and  an  omelet ;  and  they  had  been  obliged 
to  wake  her  from  a  sleep.  She  had  eaten  a  lit- 
tle of  the  omelet,  and  had  drunk  eagerly  of  the 
tea.  They  had  gone  up  again  to  take  the  tray 
down.  She  had  returned  to  the  bed.  She  was  not 
asleep — only  dull  and  heavy.  Made  no  remark. 
Looked  clean  worn  out.  We  left  her  a  light ; 
and  we  let  her  be.  Such  was  the  report.  After 
listening  to  it,  without  making  any  remark,  Geof- 
frey filled  a  second  pipe,  and  resumed  his  walk. 
The  time  wore  on.  It  began  to  feel  chilly  in  the 
garden.  The  rising  wind  swept  audibly  over  the 
open  lands  round  the  cottage ;  the  stars  twinkled 
their  last ;  nothing  was  to  be  seen  overhead  but 
the  black  void  of  night.  More  rain  coming. 
Geoffrey  went  indoors. 

An  evening  newspaper  was  on  the  dining-room 
table.  The  candles  were  lit.  He  sat  down,  and 
tried  to  read.  No !  There  was  nothing  in  the 
newspaper  that  he  cared  about.  The  time  for 
hearing  from  the  lawyer  was  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer.  Reading  was  of  no  use.  Sitting  still 
was  of  no  use.  He  got  up,  and  went  out  in  the 
front  of  the  cottage — strolled  to  the  gate — opened 
it — and  looked  idly  up  and  down  the  road. 

But  one  living  creature  was  visible  by  the  light 
of  the  gas-lamp  over  the  gate.  The  creature 
came  nearer,  and  proved  to  be  the  postman  go- 
ing his  last  round,  with  the  last  delivery  for  the 
night.  He  came  up  to  the  gate  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"The  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"All  right." 

He  took  the  letter  from  the  postman,  and  went 
back  into  the  dining-room.  Looking  at  the  ad- 
dress by  the  light  of  the  candles,  he  recognized 
the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "  To  con- 
gratulate me  on  my  marriage ! "  he  said  to  him- 
self, bitterly,  and  opened  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  congratulations  were  expressed 
in  these  terms : 

"Mr  ADORED  GEOFFREY, — I  have  heard  all. 
My  beloved  one !  my  own !  you  are  sacrificed  to 
the  vilest  wretch  that  walks  the  earth,  and  I 
have  lost  you !  How  is  it  that  I  live  after  hear- 
ing it  ?  How  is  it  that  I  can  think,  and  write, 
with  my  brain  on  fire,  and  my  heart  broken ! 
Oh,  my  angel,  there  is  a  purpose  that  supports 
me — pure,  beautiful,  worthy  of  us  both.  I  live, 
Geoffrey — I  live  to  dedicate  myself  to  the  adored 
idea  of  You.  My  hero!  my  first,  last,  love !  I 
will  marry  no  other  man.  I  will  live  and  die — 
I  vow  it  solemnly  on  my  bended  knees — I  will 
live  and  die  true  to  You.  I  am  your  Spiritual 
Wife.  My  beloved  Geoffrey!  she  can't  come 
between  us,  there — she  can  never  rob  you  of  my 
heart's  unalterable  fidelity,  of  my  soul's  unearth- 
ly devotion.  I  am  your  Spiritual  Wife !  Oh, 
the  blameless  luxury  of  writing  those  words ! 
Write'  back  to  me,  beloved  one,  and  say  you  feel 
it  too.  Vow  it,  idol  of  my  heart,  as  I  have  vowed 
it.  Unalterable  fidelity !  unearthly  devotion ! 
Never,  never  will  I  be  the  wife  of  any  other  man ! 
Never,  never  will  I  forgive  the  woman  who  has 
come  between  us  !  Yours  ever  and  only ;  yours 
with  the  stainless  passion  that  burns  on  the  altar 
of  the  heart ;  yours,  yours,  yours — E.  G. " 


This  outbreak  of  hysterical  nonsense — in  itself 
simply  ridiculous — assumed  a  serious  importance 
in  its  effect  on  Geoffrey.  It  associated  the  di- 
rect attainment  of  his  own  interests  with  the 
gratification  of  his  vengeance  on  Anne.  Ten 
thousand  a  year  self-dedicated  to  him — and  no- 
thing to  prevent  his  putting  out  his  hand  and  tak- 
ing it  but  the  woman  who  had  caught  him  in 
her  trap,  the  woman  up  stairs  who  had  fastened 
herself  on  him  for  life ! 

He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket.  "Wait  till 
I  hear  from  the  lawyer,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"The  easiest  way  out  of  it  is  that  way.  And 
it's  the  law. " 

He  looked  impatiently  at  his  watch.  As  he 
put  it  back  again  in  his  pocket  there  was  a  ring 
at  the  bell.  Was  it  the  kid  bringing  the  lug- 
gage? Yes.  And,  with  it,  the  lawyer's  re- 
port ?  No.  Better  than  that — the  lawyer  him- 
self. 

"Come  in!"  cried  Geoffrey,  meeting  his  vis- 
itor at  the  door. 

The  lawyer  entered  the  dining-room.  The 
candle-light  revealed  to  view  a  corpulent,  full- 
lipped,  bright-eyed  man — with  a  strain  of  negro 
blood  in  his  yellow  face,  and  with  unmistakable 
traces  in  his  look  and  manner  of  walking  habitu- 
ally in  the  dirtiest  professional  by-ways  of  the 
law. 

"I've  got  a  little  place  of  my  own  in  your 
neighborhood,"  he  suid.  "And  I  thought  I 
would  look  in  myself,  Mr.  Delamayn,  on  niy  way 
home." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  witnesses?" 

"1  have  examined  them  both,  Sir.  First, 
Mrs.  Inchbare  and  Mr.  Bishopriggs  together. 
Next,  Mrs.  Inchbare  and  Mr.  Bishopriggs  sepa- 
rately." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  Sir,  the  result  is  unfavorable,  I  am 
sorry  to  say." 

"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  them,  Mr. 
Delamayn,  can  give  the  evidence  we  want.  I 
have  made  sure  of  that." 

' '  Made  sure  of  that  ?  You  have  made  an  in- 
fernal mess  of  it!  You  don't  understand  the 
case!" 

The  mulatto  lawyer  smiled.  The  rudeness  of 
his  client  appeared  only  to  amuse  him. 

"Don't  I?"  he  said.  "Suppose  you  tell  me 
where  I  am  wrong  about  it?  Here  it  is  in  out- 
line only.  On  the  fourteenth  of  August  last 
your  wife  was  at  an  inn  in  Scotland.  A  gentle- 
man named  Arnold  Brinkworth  joined  her  there. 
He  represented  himself  to  be  her  husband,  and 
he  staid  with  her  till  the  next  morning.  Start- 
ing from  those  facts,  the  object  you  have  in 
view  is  to  sue  for  a  Divorce  from  your  wife. 
You  make  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  the  co-re- 
spondent. And  you  produce  in  evidence  the 
waiter  and  the  landlady  of  the  inn.  Any  thing 
wrong,  Sir,  so  far?" 

Nothing  wrong.  At  one  cowardly  stroke  to 
cast  Anne  disgraced  on  the  world,  and  to  set 
himself  free — there,  plainly  and  truly  stated,  was 
the  scheme  which  he  had  devised,  when  he  had 
turned  back  on  the  way  to  Fulham  to  consult 
Mr.  Moy. . 

"So  much  for  the  case,"  resumed  the  lawyer. 
"Now  for  what  I  have  done  on  receiving  your 
instructions.  I  have  examined  the  witnesses ; 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


207 


and  I  have  had  an  interview  (not  a  very  pleas- 
ant one)  with  Mr.  Moy.  The  result  of  those 
two  proceedings  is  briefly  this.  First  discovery : 
In  assuming  the  character  of  the  lady's  husband, 
Mr.  Brinkworth  was  acting  under  your  directions 
— which  tells  dead  against  you.  Second  discov- 
ery :  Not  the  slightest  impropriety  of  conduct, 
not  an  approach  even  to  harmless  familiarity, 
was  detected  by  either  of  the  witnesses,  while 
the  lady  and  gentleman  were  together  at  the  inn. 
There  is  literally  no  evidence  to  produce  against 
them,  except  that  they  were  together — in  two 
rooms.  How  are  you  to  assume  a  guilty  pur- 
pose, when  you  c.nn't  prove  an  approach  to  a 
guilty  act  ?  You  can  no  more  take  such  a  case 
as  that  into  Court  than  you  can  jump  over  the 
roof  of  this  cottage. " 

He  looked  hard  at  his  client,  expecting  to  re- 
ceive a  violent  reply.  His  client  agreeably  dis- 
appointed him.  A  very  strange  impression  ap- 
peared to  have  been  produced  on  this  reckless 
and  headstrong  man.  He  got  up  quietly ;  he 
spoke  with  perfect  outward  composure  of  face 
and  manner  when  he  said 'his  next  words. 

"  Have  you  given  up  the  case  ?" 

"As  things  are  at  present,  Mr.  Delamayn, 
there  is  no  case." 

"  And  no  hope  of  my  getting  divorced  from 
her?" 

"Wait  a  moment.  Hrtve  your  wife  and  Mr. 
Brinkworth  met  nowhere  since  they  were  to- 
gether at  the  Scotch  inn  ?" 

"Nowhere." 

"As  to  the  future,  of  course  I  can't  say.  As 
to  the  past,  there  is  no  hope  of  your  getting  di- 
vorced from  her." 

"Thank  you.     Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Fastened  to  her  for  life — and  the  law  power- 
less to  cut  the  knot. 

He  pondered  over  that  result  until  he  had 
thoroughly  realized  it  and  fixed  it  in  his  mind. 
Then  he  took  out  Mrs.  Glenarm's  letter,  and 
read  it  through  again,  attentively,  from  beginning 
to  end. 

Nothing  conld  shake  her  devotion  to  him. 
Nothing  would  induce  her  to  marry  another  man. 
There  she  was — in  her  own  words — dedicated  to 
him :  waiting,  with  her  fortune  at  her  own  dis- 
posal, to  be  his  wife.  There  also  was  his  father, 
waiting  (so  far  as  he  knew,  in  the  absence  of  any 
tidings  from  Holchester  House)  to  welcome  Mrs. 
Glenarm  as  a  daughter-in-law,  and  to  give  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  husband  an  income  of  his  own.  As 
fair  a  prospect,  on  all  sides,  as  man  could  desire. 
And  nothing  in  the  way  of  it  but  the  woman 
who  had  caught  him  in  her  trap — the  woman  up 
stairs  who  had  fastened  herself  on  him  for  life. 

He  went  out  in  the  garden  in  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

There  was  open  communication,  on  all  sides, 
between  the  back  garden  and  the  front.  He 
walked  round  and  round  the  cottage — now  ap- 
pearing in  a  stream  of  light  from  a  window ; 
now  disappearing  again  in  the  darkness.  The 
wind  blew  refreshingly  over  his  bare  head.  For 
some  minutes  he  went  round  and  round,  faster 
and  faster,  without  a  pause.  When  he  stopped 
at  last,  it  was  in  front  of  the  cottage.  He  lifted 
his  head  slowly,  and  looked  up  at  the  dim  light 
iu  the  window  of  Anne's  room. 


"How?"  he  said  to  himself.  "That's  the 
question.  How  ?" 

He  went  indoors  again,  and  rang  the  bell. 
The  servant-girl  who  answered  it  started  back 
at  the  sight  of  him.  His  florid  color  was  all 
gone.  His  eyes  looked  at  her  without  appear- 
ing to  see  her.  The  perspiration  was  standing 
on  his  forehead  in  great  heavy  drops. 

"Are  you  ill,  Sir?"  said  the  girl. 

He  told  her,  with  an  oath,  to  hold  her  tongue 
and  bring  the  brandy.  When  she  entered  the 
room  for  the  second  time,  he  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her,  looking  out  at  the  night.  He 
never  moved  when  she  put  the  bottle  on  the  ta- 
ble. She  heard  him  muttering  as  if  he  was  talk- 
ing to  himself. 

The  same  difficulty  which  had  been  present 
to  his  mind  in  secret  under  Anne's  window  was 
present  to  his  mind  still. 

How  ?   'That  was  the  problem  to  solve.     How  ? 

He  turned  to  the  brandy,  and  took  counsel  of 
that. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTIETH. 

THE   MORNING. 

WHEN  does  the  vain  regret  find  its  keenest 
sting?  When  is  the  doubtful  future  blackened 
by  its  darkest  cloud  ?  When  is  life  least  worth 
having,  and  death  oftenest  at  the  bedside?  In 
the  terrible  morning  hours,  when  the  sun  is  rising 
in  its  glory,  and  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  new-born  day. 

Anne  woke  in  the  strange  bed,  and  looked 
round  her,  by  the  light  of  the  new  morning,  at 
the  strange  room. 

The  rain  had  all  fallen  in  the  night.  The  sun 
was  master  in  the  clear  autumn  sky.  She  rose, 
and  opened  the  window.  The  fresh  morning 
air,  keen  and  fragrant,  filled  the  room.  Far  and 
near,  the  same  bright  stillness  possessed  the 
view.  She  stood  at  the  window  looking  out. 
Her  mind  was  clear  a'gain — she  could  think,  she 
could  feel ;  she  could  face  the  one  last  question 
which  the  merciless  morning  now  forced  on  her 
— How  will  it  end  ? 

Was  there  any  hope? — hope,  for  instance,  in 
what  she  might  do  for  herself.  What  can  a 
married  woman  do  for  herself?  She  can  make 
her  misery  public — provided  it  be  misery  of  a 
certain  kind — and  can  reckon  single-handed  with 
Society  when  she  has  done  it.  Nothing  more. 

Was  there  hope  in  what  others  might  do  for 
her  ?  Blanche  might  write  to  her — might  even 
come  and  see  her — if  her  husband  allowed  it ; 
and  that  was  all.  Sir  Patrick  had  pressed  her 
hand  at  parting,  and  had  told  her  to  rely  on 
him.  He  was  the  firmest,  the  truest  of  friends. 
But  what  could  he  do?  There  were  outrages 
which  her  husband  was  privileged  to  commit,  un- 
der the  sanction  of  marriage,  at  the  bare  thought 
of  which  her  blood  ran  cold.  Could  Sir  Patrick 
protect  her  ?  Absurd !  Law  and  Society  armed 
her  husband  with  his  conjugal  rights.  Law  and 
Society  had  but  one  answer  to  give,  if  she  ap- 
pealed to  them — You  are  his  wife. 

No  hope  in  herself;  no  hope  in  her  friends; 
no  hope  any  where  on  earth.  Nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  wait  for  the  end — with  faith  in  the 
Divine  Mercy ;  with  faith  in  the  better  world. 

She  took  out  of  her  trunk  a  little  book  of 


208 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Prayers  and  Meditations — worn  with  much  use 
— which  had  once  belonged  to  her  mother.  She 
sat  by  the  window  reading  it.  Now  and  then 
she  looked  up  from  it — thinking.  The  parallel 
between  her  mother's  position  and  her  own  posi- 
tion was  now  complete.  Both  married  to  hus- 
bands who  hated  them ;  to  husbands  whose  in- 
terests pointed  to  mercenary  alliances  with  other 
women ;  to  husbands  whose  one  want  and  one 
purpose  was  to  be  free  from  their  wives.  Strange, 
what  different  ways  had  led  mother  and  daugh- 
ter both  to  the  same  fate!  Would  the  parallel 
hold  to  the  end  ?  "  Shall  I  die,"  she  wondered, 
thinking  of  her  mother's  last  moments,  "in 
Blanche's  arms  ?" 

The  time  had  passed  unheeded.  The  morn- 
ing movement  in  the  house  had  failed  to  catch 
her  ear.  She  was  first  called  out  of  herself  to 
the  sense  of  the  present  and  passing  events  by 
the  voice  of  the  servant-girl  outside  the  door. 

"  The  master  wants  you,  ma'am,  down  stairs." 

She  rose  instantly,  and  put  away  the  little  book. 

"  Is  that  all  the  message  ?"  she  asked,  opening 
the  door. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

She  followed  the  girl  down  stairs ;  recalling  to 
her  memory  the  strange  words  addressed  to  her 
by  Geoffrey,  in  the  presence  of  the  servants,  on 
the  evening  before.  Was  she  now  to  know  what 
those  words  really  meant?  The  doubt  would 
soon  be  set  at  rest.  ' '  Be  the  trial  what  it  may, " 
she  thought  to  herself,  "let  me  bear  it  as  my 
mother  would  have  borne  it." 

The  servant  opened  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room.  Breakfast  was  on  the  table.  Geoifrey 
was  standing  at  the  window.  Hester  Dethridge 
was  waiting,  posted  near  the  door.  He  came 
forward — with  the  nearest  approach  to  gentle- 
ness in  his  manner  which  she  had  ever  yet  seen 
iti  it — he  came  forward,  with  a  set  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  offered  her  his  hand ! 

She  had  entered  the  room,  prepared  (as  she 
believed)  for  any  thing  that  could  happen.  She 
was  not  prepared  for  this.  She  stood  speech- 
less, looking  at  him. 

After  one  glance  at  her,  when  she  came  in, 
Hester  Dethridge  looked  at  him,  too — and  from 
that  moment  never  looked  away  again,  as  long 
as  Anne  remained  in  the  room. 

He  broke  the  silence — in  a  voice  that  was  not 
like  his  own  ;  with  a  furtive  restraint  in  his  man- 
ner which  she  had  never  noticed  in  it  before. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  your  husband," 
he  asked,  "  when  your  husband  asks  you?" 

She  mechanically  put  her  hand  in  his.  He 
dropped  it  instantly,  with  a  start.  "  God!  how 
cold !"  he  exclaimed.  His  own  hand  was  burn- 
ing hot,  and  shook  incessantly. 

He  pointed  to  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  Will  you  make  the  tea?"  he  asked. 

She  had  given  him  her  hand  mechanically ; 
she  advanced  a  step  mechanically — and  then 
stopped. 

"  Would  you  prefer  breakfasting  by  yourself?" 
he  said. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  answered,  faintly. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  have  something  to  say 
before  you  go." 

She  waited.  He  considered  with  himself; 
consulting  his  memory — visibly,  unmistakably, 
consulting  it  before  he  spoke  again. 


"I  have  had  the  night  to  think  in,"  he  said. 
"  The  night  has  made  a  new  man  of  me.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  what  I  said  yesterday.  I  was 
not  myself  yesterday.  I  talked  nonsense  yester- 
day. Please  to  forget  it,  and  forgive  it.  I  wish 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  amends — make 
amends  for  my  past  conduct.  It  shall  be  my 
endeavor  to  be  a  good  husband.  In  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  request  you  to  give  me  a 
chance.  I  won't  force  your  inclinations.  We 
are  married — what's  the  use  of  regretting  it? 
Stay  here,  as  you  said  yesterday,  on  your  own 
terms.  I  wish  to  make  it  -up.  In  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  say  I  wish  to  make  it  up. 
I  won't  detain  you.  I  request  you  to  think  of  it. 
Good-morning. " 

He  said  those  extraordinary  words  like  a  slow- 
boy  saying  a  hard  lesson — his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
his  fingers  restlessly  fastening  and  unfastening 
a  button  on  his  waistcoat. 

Anne  left  the  room.  In  the  passage  she  was 
obliged  to  wait,  and  support  herself  against  the 
wall.  His  unnatural  politeness  was  horrible ; 
his  carefully  asserted  repentance  chilled  her  to 
the  soul  with  dread.  She  had  never  felt — in  the 
time  of  his  fiercest  anger  and  his  foulest  language 
— the  unutterable  horror  of  him  that  she  felt 
now. 

Hester  Dethridge  came  out,  closing  the  door 
behind  her.  She  looked  attentively  at  Anne — 
then  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  held  it  out,  with 
these  words  on  it : 

"Do  you  believe  him?" 

Anne  pushed  the  slate  away,  and  ran  up  stairs. 
She  fastened  the  door — and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"He  is  plotting  something  against  me,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  What  ?" 

A  sickening,  physical  sense  of  dread — entirely 
new  in  her  experience  of  herself — made  her 
shrink  from  pursuing  the  question.  The  sink- 
ing at  her  heart  turned  her  faint.  She  went  to 
get  the  air  at  the  open  window. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
gate  bell.  Suspicious  of  any  thing  and  every 
thing,  she  felt  a  sudden  distrust  of  letting  her- 
self be  seen.  She  drew  back  behind  the  curtain 
and  looked  out. 

A  man-servant,  in  livery,  was  let  in.  He  had 
a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  said  to  the  girl  as  he 
passed  Anne's  window,  "I  come  from  Lady 
Holchester;  I  must  see  Mr.  Delamayn  instantly." 

They  went  in.  There  was  an  interval.  The 
footman  reappeared,  leaving  the  place.  There 
was  another  interval.  Then  there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Anne  hesitated.  The  knock  was 
-epeated,  ani  the  dumb  murmuring  of  Hester 
Dethridge  was  heard  outside.  Anne  opened  the 
door. 

Hester  came  in  with  the  breakfast.  She 
pointed  to  a  letter  among  other  things  on  the 
tray.  It  was  addressed  to  Anne,  in  Geoffrey's 
handwriting,  and  it  contained  these  words: 

' '  My  father  died  yesterday.  Write  your  or- 
ders for  your  mourning.  The  boy  will  take 
them.  You  are  not  to  trouble  yourself  to  go  to 
London.  Somebody  is  to  come  here  to  you 
from  the  shop." 

Anne  dropped  the  paper  on  her  lap  without 
looking  up.  At  the  same  moment  Hester  Deth- 
ridge's  slate  was  passed  stealthily  between  her 
eyes  and  the  note — with  these  words  traced  on  it. 
"His  mother  is  coming  to-day.  His  brother 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


200 


lias  been  telegraphed  from  Scotland.  He  was 
drunk  last  night.  He's  drinking  again.  I  know 
\vhat  that  means.  Look  out,  missus — look  out." 

Anne  signed  to  her  to  leave  the  room.  She 
went  out,  pulling  the  door  to,  but  not  closing  it 
behind  her. 

There  was  another  ring  at  the  gate  bell.  Once 
more  Anne  went  to  the  window.  Only  the  lad, 
this  time ;  arriving  to  take  his  orders  for  the  day. 
lie  had  barely  entered  the  garden  when  he  was 
followed  by  the  postman  with  letters.  In  a  min- 
ute more  Geoffrey's  voice  was  heard  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  Geoffrey's  heavy  step  ascended  the 
wooden  stairs.  Anne  hurried  across  the  room 
to  draw  the  bolts.  Geoffrey  met  her  before  she 
could  close  the  door. 

"  A  letter  for  you,"  he  said,  keeping  scrupu- 
lously out  of  the  room.  "  I  don't  wish  to  force 
your  inclinations — I  only  request  you  to  tell  me 
who  it's  from." 

His  manner  was  as  carefully  subdued  as  ever. 
But  the  unacknowledged  distrust  in  him  (when 
he  looked  at  her)  betrayed  itself  in  his  eye. 

She  glanced  at  the  handwriting  on  the  address. 

"  From  Blanche,"  she  answered. 

He  softly  put  his  foot  between  the  door  and 
the  post — and  waited  until  she  had  opened  and 
read  Blanche's  letter. 

"May  I  see  it?"  he  asked — and  put  in  his 
hand  for  it  through  the  door. 

The  spirit  in  Anne  which  would  once  have  re- 
sisted him  was  dead  in  her  now.  She  handed 
him  the  open  letter. 

It  was  very  short.  Excepting  some  brief  ex- 
pressions of  fondness,  it  was  studiously  confined 
to  stating  the  purpose  for  which  it  had  been  writ- 
ten. Blanche  proposed  to  visit  Anne  that  after- 
noon, accompanied  by  her  uncle ;  she  sent  word 
beforehand,  to  make  sure  of  finding  Anne  at 
home.  That  wa&  all.  The  letter  had  evidently 
been  written  under  Sir  Patrick's  advice. 

Geoffrey  handed  it  back,  after  first  waiting  a 
moment  to  think. 

"My  father  died  yesterday,"  he  said.  '*^Iy 
wife  can't  receive  visitors  before  he  is  buried.  I 
don't  wish  to  force  your  inclinations.  I  only  say 
I  can't  let  visitors  in  here  before  the  funeral — 
except  my  own  family.  Send  a  note  down 
stairs.  The  lad  will  take  it  to  your  friend  when 
he  goes  to  London."  With  those  words,  he  left 
her. 

An  appeal  to  the  proprieties  of  life,  in  the 
mouth  of  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  could  only  mean 
one  of  two  things.  Either  lie  had  spoken  in 
brutal  mockery — or  he  had  spoken  with  some 
ulterior  object  in  view.  Had  he  seized  on  the 
event  of  his  father's  death  as  a  pretext  for  iso- 
lating his  wife  from  all  communication  with  the 
outer  world  ?  Were  there  reasons,  which  had  not 
yet  asserted  themselves,  for  his  dreading  the  re- 
sult, if  he  allowed  Anne  to  communicate  with 
her  friends  ? 

The  hour  wore  on,  and  Hester  Dethridge  ap- 
peared again.  The  lad  was  waiting  for  Anne's 
orders  for  her  mourning,  and  for  her  note  to 
Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth. 

Anne  wrote  the  orders  and  the  note.  Once 
more  the  horrible  slate  appeared  when  she  had 
done,  between  the  writing  paper  and  Tier  eyes, 
with  the  hard  lines  of  warning  pitilessly  traced 
on  it.  "  He  has  locked  the  gate.  When  there's 
u  ring  we  are  to  come  to  him  for  the  key.  He 


has  written  to  a  woman.  Name  outside  the  let- 
ter, Mrs.  Glenarm.  He  has  had  more  brandy. 
Like  my  husband.  Mind  yourself." 

The  one  way  out  of  the  high  walls  all  round 
the  cottage  locked.  Friends  forbidden  to  see 
her.  Solitary  imprisonment,  with  her  husband 
for  a  jailer.  Before  she  had  been  four-and- 
twenty  hours  in  the  cottage  it  had  come  to  that. 
And  what  was  to  follow  ? 

She  went  back  mechanically  to  the  window. 
The  sight  of  the  outer  world,  the  occasional  view 
of  a  passing  vehicle,  helped  to  sustain  her. 

The  lad  appeared  in  the  front  garden  depart- 
ing to  perform  his  errand  to  London.  Geoffrey 
went  with  him  to  open  the  gate,  and  called  after 
him,  as  he  passed  through  it,  "Don't  forget  the 
books!" 

The  "books?"  What  "books?"  Who  want- 
ed them  ?  The  slightest  thing  now  roused  Anne's 
suspicion.  For  hours  afterward  the  bo.oks  haunt- 
ed her  mind. 

He  secured  the  gate  and  came  back  again. 
He  stopped  under  Anne's  window  and  called  to 
her.  She  showed  herself.  "When  you  want 
air  and  exercise,"  he  said,  "the  back  garden  is  at 
your  own  disposal. "  He  put  the  key  of  the  gate 
in  his  pocket  and  returned  to  the  house. 

After  some  hesitation  Anne  decided  on  taking 
him  at  his  word.  In  her  state  of  suspense,  to 
remain  within  the  four  walls  of  the  bedroom  was 
unendurable.  If  some  lurking  snare  lay  hid  un- 
der the  fair-sounding  proposal  which  Geoffrey 
had  made,  it  was  less  repellent  to  her  boldly  to 
prove  what  it  might  be  than  to  wait  pondering 
over  it  with  her  mind  in  the  dark.  She  put  on 
her  hat  and  went  down  into  the  garden. 

Nothing  happened  out  of  the  common.  Wher- 
ever he  was  he  never  showed  himself.  She 
wandered  up  and  down,  keeping  on  the  side  of 
the  garden  which  was  farthest  from  the  dining- 
room  window.  To  a  woman,  escape  from  the 
place  was  simply  impossible.  Setting  out  of  the 
question  the  height  of  the  walls,  they  were  armed 
at  the  top  with  a  thick  setting  of  jagged  broken 
glass.  A  small  back-door  in  the  end  wall  (in- 
tended probably  for  the  gardener's  use)  was 
bolted  and  locked — the  key  having  been  taken 
out.  There  was  not  a  house  near.  The  lands 
of  the  local  growers  of  vegetables  surrounded 
the  garden  on  all  sides.  In  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, and  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  a 
great  metropolis,  Anne  was  as  absolutely  iso- 
lated from,  all  contact  with  the  humanity  around 
her  as  if  she  lay  in  her  grave. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  noise  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  pub- 
lic road  in  front,  and  a  ring  at  the  bell.  Anne 
kept  close  to  the  cottage,  at  the  back ;  determ- 
ined, if  a  chance  offered,  on  speaking  to  the  vis- 
itor, whoever  the  visitor  might  be. 

She  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room  through 
the  open  window — Geoffrey's  voice  and  the  voice 
of  a  woman.  Who  was  the  woman  ?  Not  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  surely?  After  a  while  the  visitor's 
voice  was  suddenly  raised.  "  Where  is  she  ?"  it 
said.  "  I  wish  to  see  her."  Anne  instantly  ad- 
vanced to  the  back-door  of  the  house — and  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  a  lady  who  was  a  total 
stranger  to  her. 

"Are  you  my  son's  wife?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  I  am  your  son's  prisoner,"  Anne  answered. 

Lady  Holchester's  pale  face  turned  paler  still. 


2LO 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


It  was  plain  that  Anne's  reply  had  confirmed 
some  doubt  in  the  mother's  mind  which  had  been 
already  suggested  to  it  by  the  son. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Geoffrey's  heavy  footsteps  crossed  the  dining- 
room.  There  was  no  time  to  explain.  Anne 
whispered  back, 

"  Tell  my  friends  what  I  have  told  you." 

Geoffrey  appeared  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"  Name  one  of  your  friends,"  said  Lady  Hol- 
chester. 

"Sir  Patrick  Lundie." 

Geoffrey  heard  the  answer.  "What  about 
Sir  Patrick  Lundie  ?"  he  asked. 

' '  I  wish  to  see  Sir  Patrick  Lundie, "  srad  his 
mother.  "  And  your  wife  can  tell  me  where  to 
find  him. " 

Anne  instantly  understood  that  Lady  IIol- 
Chester  would  communicate  with  Sir  Patrick. 
She  mentioned  his  London  address.  Lady  IIol- 
chester  turned  to  leave  the  cottage.  Her  son 
stopped  her. 

"Let's  set  things  straight,"  he  said,  "before 
you  go.  My  mother,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
himself  to  Anne,  "don't  think  there's  much 
chance  for  us  two  of  living  comfortably  together. 
Bear  witness  to  the  truth — will  you  ?  What  did 
I  tell  you  at  breakfast-time?  Didn't  I  say  it 
should  be  my  endeavor  to  make  you  a  good  hus- 
band ?  Didn't  I  say — in  Mrs.  Dethridge's  pres- 
ence— I  wanted  to  make  it  up  ?"  He  waited 
until  Anne  had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and 
then' appealed  to  his  mother.  "Well?  what  do 
you  think  now  ?" 

Lady  Holchester  declined  to  reveal  what  she 
thought.  ' '  You  shall  see  me,  or  hear  from  me, 
this  evening,"  she  said  to  Anne.  Geoffrey  at- 
tempted to  repeat  his  unanswered  question.  His 
mother  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  instantly 
dropped  before  hers.  She  gravely  bent  her  head 
to  Anne,  and  drew  her  veil.  Her  son  followed 
her  out  in  silence  to  the  gate. 

Anne  returned  to  her  room,  sustained  by  the 
first  sense  of  relief  which  she  had  felt  since  the 
morning.  "  His  mother  is  alarmed,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "A  change  will  come." 

A  change  was  to  come  —  with  the  coming 
night. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FIRST. 

THE   PROPOSAL. 

TOWARD  sunset,  Lady  Holchester's  carriage 
drew  up  before  the  gate  of  the  cottage. 

Three  persons  occupied  the  carriage :  Lady 
Holchester,  her  eldest  son  (now  Lord  Holches- 
ter), and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

"  Will  you  wait  in  the  carriage,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 
said  Julius.  "  Or  will  you  come  in  ?" 

"I  will  wait.  If  I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to 
Aer,  send  for  me  instantly.  In  the  mean  time, 
don't  forget  to  make  the  stipulation  which  I  have 
suggested.  It  is  the  one  certain  way  of  putting 
your  brother's  real  feeling  in  this  matter  to  the 
test." 

The  servant  had  rung  the  bell  without  produc- 
ing any  result.  He  rang  again.  Lady  Holches- 
ter put  a  question  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"  If  I  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  my 
son's  wife  alone,"  she  said,  "have  you  any  mes- 
sage to  give  ?" 


Sir  Patrick  produced  a  little  note. 

"May  I  appeal  to  your  ladyship's  kindness  to 
give  her  this  ?"  The  gate  was  opened  by  the 
servant-girl,  as  Lady  Holchester  took  the  note. 
"Remember,"  reiterated  Sir  Patrick,  earnestly, 
"  if  I  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  to  her — don't 
think  of  my  position  with  Mr.  Delamayn.  Send 
for  me  at  once. " 

Julius  and  his  mother  were  conducted  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  girl  informed  them  that 
her  master  had  gone  up  stairs  to  lie  down,  and 
that  he  would  be  with  them  immediately. 

Both  mother  and  son  were  too  anxious  to 
speak.  Julius  wandered  uneasily  about  the 
room.  Some  books  attracted  his  notice  on  a 
table  in  the  corner — four  dirty,  greasy  volumes, 
with  a  slip  of  paper  projecting  from  the  leaves 
of  one  of  them,  and  containing  this  inscription, 
"With  Mr.  Perry's  respects."  Julius  opened 
the  volume.  It  was  the  ghastly  popular  record 
of  Criminal  Trials  in  England,  called  the  New- 
gate Calendar.  Julius  showed  it  to  his  mother. 

"  Geoffrey's  taste  in  literature!"  he  said,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

Lady  Holchester  signed  to  him  to  put  the  book 
back. 

"You  have  seen  Geoffrey's  wife  already — 
have  you  not  ?"  she  asked. 

There  was  no  contempt  now  in  her  tone  when 
she  referred  to  Anne.  The  impression  produced 
on  her  by  her  visit  to  the  cottage,  earlier  in  the 
day,  associated  Geoffrey's  wife  with  family  anx- 
ieties of  no  trivial  kind.  She  might  still  (for 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  sake)  be  a  woman  to  be  disliked 
— but  she  was  no  longer  a,  woman  to  be  des]>;  . 1. 

"I  saw  her  when  she  came  to  SwanhaveiV 
said  Julius.  ' '  I  agree  with  Sir  Patrick  in  think- 
ing her  a  very  interesting  person. " 

"  What  did  Sir  Patrick  say  to  you  about  Geof- 
frey this  afternoon — while  I  was  out  of  the 
room  ?" 

"  Only  what  he  said  to  you.  He  thought  their 
position  toward  each  other  here  a  very  deplor- 
able one.  He  considered  that  the  reasons  were 
serious  for  our  interfering  immediately. " 

"Sir  Patrick's  own  opinion,  Julius,  goes  far- 
ther than  that." 

"  He  has  not  acknowledged  it,  that  I  know  of.'' 

"How  can  he  acknowledge  it — to  us?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Geoffrey  entered  the 
room. 

Julius  eyed  him  closely  as  they  shook  hands. 
His  eyes  were  bloodshot;  his  face  was  flushed; 
his  utterance  was  thick — the  look  of  him  was  the 
look  of  a  man  who  had  been  drinking  hard. 

''Well?"  he  said  to  his  mother.  "What 
brings  you  back  ?" 

"  Julius  has  a  proposal  to  make  to  you,"  Lady 
Holchester  answered.  "I  approve  of  it ;  and  I 
have  come  with  him." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  his  brother. 

"  What  can  a  rich  man  like  you  want  with  a 
poor  devil  like  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  want  to  do  you  justice,  Geoffrey — if  you 
will  help  me,  by  meeting  me  half-way.  Our 
mother  has  told  you  about  the  will  ?" 

"  I'm  not  down  for  a  half-penny  in  the  will. 
I  expected  as  much.  Goon." 

"  You  are  wrong — you  are  down  in  it.  There 
is  liberal  provision  made  for  you  in  a  codicil. 
Unhappily,  my  father  died  without  signing  it. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  consider  it  binding  on 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


211 


me  for  all  that.  I  am  ready  to  do  for  you  what 
your  father  would  have  clone  for  you.  And  I 
only  ask  for  one  concession  in  return." 

'"'  What  may  that  be  ?" 

"You  are  living  here  very  unhappily,  Geof- 
frey, with  your  wife. " 

"Who  says  so?     I  don't,  for  one." 

Julius  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  his  brother's 
arm. 

"  Don't  trifle  with  such  a  serious  matter  as  this," 
he  said.  "Your  marriage  is,  in  every  sense  of 
the  word,  a  misfortune — not  only  to  you  but  to 
your  wife.  It  is  impossible  that  you  can  live  to- 
gether. I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  to  consent 
to  a  separation.  Do  that — and  the  provision 
made  for  you  in  the  unsigned  codicil  is  yours. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

Geoffrey  shook  his  brother's  hand  off  his 
arm. 

"  I  say — No!"  he  answered. 

Lady  Holchester  interfered  for  the  first  time. 

"Your  brother's  generous  offer  deserves  a 
better  answer  than  that,"  she  said. 

"  My  answer, "reiterated  Geoffrey,  "is — No !" 

He  sat  between  them  with  his  clenched  fists 
resting  on  his  knees — absolutely  impenetrable  to 
any  thing  that  either  of  them  could  say. 

" In  your  situation,"  said  Julius,  "a refusal  is 
sheer  madness.  I  won't  accept  it." 

"Do  as  you  like  about  that.  My  mind's 
made  up.  I  won't  let  my  wife  be  taken  away 
from  me.  Here  she  stays. " 

The  brutal  tone  in  which  he  had  made  that 
reply  roused  Lady  Holchester's  indignation. 

"  Take  care!"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  only 
behaving  with  the  grossest  ingratitude  toward 
your  brother — you  are  forcing  a  suspicion  into 
your  mother's  mind.  You  have  some  motive 
that  you  are  hiding  from  us." 

He  turned  on  his  mother  with  a  sudden  feroc- 
ity which  made  Julius  spring  to  his  feet.  The 
next  instant  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground,  and 
the  devil  that  possessed  him  was  quiet  again. 

"Some  motive  I'm  hiding  from  you?"  he  re- 
peated, with  his  head  down,  and  his  utterance 
thicker  than  ever.  "I'm  ready  to  have  my  mo- 
tive posted  all  over  London,  if  you  like.  I'm 
fond  of  her." 

He  looked  up  as  he  said  the  last  words.  Lady 
Holchester  turned  away  her  head  —  recoiling 
from  her  own  son.  So  overwhelming  was  the 
shock  inflicted  on  her  that  even  the  strongly 
rooted  prejudice  which  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  im- 
planted in  her  mind  yielded  to  it.  At  that  mo- 
ment she  absolutely  pitied  Anne ! 

"Poor  creature  !"  said  Lady  Holchester. 

He  took  instant  offense  at  those  two  words. 
"I  won't  have  my  wife  pitied  by  any  body." 
With  that  reply,  he  dashed  into  the  passage; 
and  called  out,  "Anne!  come  down  !'' 

Her  soft  voice  answered ;  her  light  footfall 
was  heard  on  the  stairs.  iShe  came  into  the 
room.  Julius  advanced,  took  her  hand,  and 
held  it  kindly  in  his.  "We  are  having  a  little 
family  discussion,"  he  said,  trying  to  give  her 
confidence.  "And  Geoffrey  is  getting  hot  over 
it,  as  usual." 

Geoffrey  appealed  sternly  to  his  mother. 

"Look  at  her!"  he  said.  "Is  she  starved? 
Is  she  in  rags  ?  Is  she  covered  with  bruises  ?" 
He  turned  to  Anne.  "They  have  come  here 
to  propose  a  separation.  They  both  believe  I 


hate  you.  I  don't  hate  you.  I'm  a  good  Chris- 
tian. I  owe  it  to  you  that  I'm  cut  out  of  my 
father's  will.  I  forgive  you  that.  I  owe  it  to 
you  that  I've  lost  the  chance  of  marrying  a  wo- 
man with  ten  thousand  a  year.  I  forgive  you 
that.  I'm  not  a  man  who  does  things  by  halves. 
I  said  it  should  be  my  endeavor  to  make  you  a 
good  husband.  I  said  it  was  my  wish  to  make  it 
up.  Well !  I  am  as  good  as  my  word.  And 
what's  the  consequence?  I  am  insulted.  My 
mother  comes  here,  and  my  brother  comes  here 
— and  they  offer  me  money  to  part  from  you. 
Money  be  hanged !  I'll  be  beholden  to  nobody. 
I'll  get  my  own  living.  Shame  on  the  people 
wlio  interfere  between  man  and  wife !  Shame ! — 
that's  what  I  say — shame!" 

Anne  looked,  for  an  explanation,  from  her 
husband  to  her  husband's  mother. 

"Have  you  proposed  a  separation  between 
us  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — on  terms  of  the  utmost  advantage  to 
my  son ;  arranged  with  every  possible  considera- 
tion toward  you.  Is  there  any  objection  on  your 
side  ?" 

"  Oh,  Lady  Holchester !  is  it  necessary  to  ask 
me  ?  What  does  he  say  ?" 

"  He  has  refused.'1 

"  Refused!" 

' '  Yes, "  said  Geoffrey.  ' '  I  don't  go  back  from 
my  word ;  I  stick  to  what  I  said  this  morning. 
It's  my  endeavor  to  make  you  a  good  husband. 
It's  my  wish  to  make  it  up."  He  paused,  and 
then  added  his  last  reason  :  "  I'm  fond  of  you." 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  said  it  to  her.  Julius 
felt  Anne's  hand  suddenly  tighten  round  his. 
The  desperate  grasp  of  the  frail  cold  fingers,  the 
imploring  terror  in  the  gentle  sensitive  face  as  it 
slowly  turned  his  way,  said  to  him  as  if  in  words, 
"  Don't  leave  me  friendless  to-night !" 

"If  you  both  stop  here  till  domesday,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "you'll  get  nothing  more  out  of  me. 
You  have  had  my  reply. " 

With  that,  he  seated  himself  doggedly  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  ;  waiting  —  ostentatiously 
waiting — for  his  mother  and  his  brother  to  take 
their  leave.  The  position  was  serious.  To 
argue  the  matter  with  him  that  night  was  hope- 
less. To  invite  Sir  Patrick's  interference  would 
only  be  to  provoke  his  savage  temper  to  a  new 
outbreak.  On  the  other  hand,  to  leave  the  help- 
less woman,  after  what  had  passed,  without  an- 
other effort  to  befriend  her,  was,  in  her  situation, 
an  act  of  downright  inhumanity,  and  nothing 
less.  Julius  took  the  one  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty that  was  left — the  one  way  worthy  of  him 
as  a  compassionate  and  an  honorable  man. 

"We  will  drop  it  for  to-night,  Geoffrey,"  he 
said.  "But  I  am  not  the  less  resolved,  in  spite 
of  all  that  you  have  said,  to  return  to  the  subject 
to-morrow.  It  would  save  me  some  inconven- 
ience— a  second  journey  here  from  town,  and 
then  going  back  again  to  my  engagements — if  I 
staid  with  you  to-night.  Can  you  give  me  a 
bed?" 

A  look  flashed  on  him  from  Anne,  which 
thanked  him  as  no  words  could  have  thanked 
him.. 

' '  Give  you  a  bed  ?''  repeated  Geoffrey.  He 
checked  himself,  on  the  point  of  refusing.  His 
mother  was  watching  him ;  his  wife  was  watch- 
ing him — and  his  wife  knew  that  the  room  above 
them  was  a  room  to  spare.  "All  right!"  he 


212 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


resumed,  in  another  tone,  with  his  eye  on  his 
mother.  "There's  an  empty  room  up  stairs. 
Have  it,  if  you  like.  You  won't  find  I've  changed 
my  mind  to-morrow — but  that's  your  look-out. 
Stop  here,  if  the  fancy  takes  you.  I've  no  ob- 
jection. It  don't  matter  to  Me. — Will  you  trust 
his  lordship  under  my  roof?"  he  added,  address- 
ing his  mother.  "I  might  have  some  motive 
that  I'm  hiding  from  you,  you  know ! "  Without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  he  turned  to  Anne.  "  Go 
and  tell  old  Dummy  to  put  the  sheets  on  the  bed. 
Say  there's  a  live  lord  in  the  house — she's  to  send 
in  something  devilish  good  for  supper!" 

He  burst  fiercely  into  a  forced  laugh.  Lady 
Holchester  rose  at  the  moment  when  Anne  was 
leaving  the  room. 

"I  shall  not  be  here  when  you  return,"  she 
said.  "Let  me  bid  you  good-night." 

She  shook  hands  with  Anne — giving  her  Sir 
Patrick's  note,  unseen,  at  the  same  moment. 
Anne  left  the  room.  Without  addressing  anoth- 
er word  to  her  second  son,  Lady  Holchester 
beckoned  to  Julius  to  give  her  his  arm.  "  You 
have  acted  nobly  toward  your  brother,"  she  said 
to  him.  "My  one  comfort  and  my  one  hope, 
Julius,  are  in  you."  They  went  out  together 
to  the  gate,  Geoffrey  following  them  with  the 
key  in  his  hand.  "  Don't  be  too  anxious,"  Ju- 
lius whispered  to  his  mother.  "I  will  keep  the 
drink  out  of  his  way  to-night — and  I  will  bring 
you  a  better  account  of  him  to-morrow.  Ex- 
plain every  thing  to  Sir  Patrick  as  you  go  home." 
He  handed  Lady  Holchester  into  the  carriage ; 
and  re-entered,  leaving  Geoffrey  to  lock  the  gate. 

The  brothers  returned  in  silence  to  the  cot- 
tage. Julius  had  concealed  it  from  his  mother 
— but  he  was  seriously  uneasy  in  secret.  Nat- 
urally prone  to  look  at  all  things  on  their  bright- 
er side,  he  could  place  no  hopeful  interpretation 
on  what  Geoffrey  had  said  and  done  that  night. 
The  conviction  that  he  was  deliberately  acting 
a  part,  in  his  present  relations  with  his  wife,  for 
some  abominable  purpose  of  his  own,  had  rooted 
itself  firmly  in  Julius.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
experience  of  his  brother,  the  pecuniary  consid- 
eration was  not  the  uppermost  consideration  in 
Geoffrey's  mind. 

They  went  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

"What  will  you  have  to  drink?'1  said  Geof- 
frey. 

"Nothing." 

"  You  won't  keep  me  company  over  a  drop  of 
bran  dy-and- water  ?" 

"No.  You  have  had  enough  brandy-and- 
water." 

After  a  moment  of  frowning  self-consideration 
in  the  glass,  Geoffrey  abruptly  agreed  with  Ju- 
lius. "I  look  like  it," he  said.  " I'll  soon  put 
that  right. "  He  disappeared,  and  returned  with  a 
wet  towel  tied  round  his  head.  "  What  will  you 
do  while  the  women  are  getting  your  bed  ready? 
Liberty  Hall  here.  I've  taken  to  cultivating  my 
mind — I'm  a  reformed  character,  you  know,  now 
I'm  a  married  man.  You  do  what  you  like.  I 
shall  read. " 

He  turned  to  the  side-table ;  and,  producing 
the  volumes  of  the  Newgate  Calendar,  gave  one 
to  his  brother.  Julius  handed  it  back  again.  • 

"You  won't  cultivate  your  mind,"  he  said, 
"with  such  a  book  as  that.  Vile  actions,  re- 
corded in  vile  English,  make  vile  reading,  Geof- 
frey, in  every  sense  of  the  word." 


"It  will  do  for  me.  I  don't  know  good  En- 
glish when  I  see  it." 

With  that  frank  acknowledgment — to  which 
the  great  majority  of  his  companions  at  school 
and  college  might  have  subscribed  without  doing 
the  slightest  injustice  to  the  present  state  of  En- 
glish education — Geoffrey  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table,  and  opened  one  of  the  volumes  of  his  re- 
cord of  crime. 

The  evening  newspaper  was  lying  on  the  sofa. 
Julius  took  it  up,  and  seated  himself  opposite  to 
his  brother,  lie  noticed,  with  some  surprise, 
that  Geoffrey  appeared  to  have  a  special  object 
in  consulting  his  book.  Instead  of  beginning  at 
the  first  page,  he  ran  the  leaves  through  his  fin- 
gers, and  turned  them  down  at  certain  places, 
before  he  entered  on  his  reading.  If  Julius  had 
looked  over  his  brother's  shoulder,  instead  of 
only  looking  at  him  across  the  table,  he  would 
have  seen  that  Geoffrey  passed  by  all  the  lighter 
crimes  reported  in  the  Calendar,  and  marked  for 
his  own  private  reading  the  cases  of  murder  only. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SECOND. 

THE   APPARITIOX. 

THE  night  had  advanced.     It  was  close  on 
twelve  o'clock,  when  Anne  heard  the  servant's 
voice,  outside  her  bedroom  door,  asking  leave  to 
speak  with  her  for  a  moment. 
'  What  is  it  ?" 

'The  gentleman  down  stairs  wishes  to  see 
yoi,  ma'am." 

'  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Delamayn's  brother  ?" 

'Yes." 

'  Where  is  Mr.  Delamayn  ?" 

'  Out  in  the  garden,  ma'am." 

Anne  went  down  stairs,  and  found  Julius  alone 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  he  said.  "I 
am  afraid  Geoffrey  is  ill.  The  landlady  has  gone 
to  bed,  I  am  told — and  I  don't  know  where  to 
apply  for  medical  assistance.  Do  you  know  of 
any  doctor  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

Anne,  like  Julius,  was  a  perfect  stranger  to 
the  neighborhood.  She  suggested  making  in- 
quiry of  the  servant.  On  speaking  to  the  girl,  it 
turned  out  that  she  knew  of  a  medical  man,  liv- 
ing within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  the  cottage.  She 
could  give  plain  directions  enabling  any  person 
to  find  the  place — but  she  was  afraid,  at  that 
hour  of  the  night  and  in  that  lonely  neighbor- 
hood, to  go  out  by  herself. 

" Is  he  seriously  ill?"  Anne  asked. 

"He  is  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  irritability," 
said  Julius,  "that  he  can't  remain  still  for  two 
moments  together  in  the  same  place.  It  began 
with  incessant  restlessness  while  he  was  reading 
here.  I  persuaded  him  to  go  to  bed.  He 
couldn't  lie  still  for  an  instant — he  came  down 
again,  burning  with  fever,  and  more  restless  than 
ever.  He  is  out  in  the  garden  in  spite  of  every 
thing  I  could  do  to  prevent  him ;  trying,  as  he 
says,  to  'run  it  off.'  It  appears  to  be  serious  to 
me.  Come  and  judge  for  yourself." 

He  led  Anne  into  the  next  room ;  and,  open- 
ing the  shutter,  pointed  to  the  garden. 

The  clouds  had  cleared  off:  the  night  was  fine. 
The  clear  starlight  showed  Geoffrey,  stripped  to 
his  shirt  and  drawers,  running  round  and  round 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


211 


the  garden.  He  apparently  believed  himself  to 
be  contending  at  the  Fulham  foot-race.  At 
times,  as  the  white  figure  circled  round  and 
round  in  the  star-light,  they  heard  him  cheering 
for  "the  South."  The  slackening  thump  of  his 
feet  on  the  ground,  the  heavier  and  heavier  gasps 
in  which  he  drew  his  breath,  as  he  passed  the 
window,  gave  warning  that  his  strength  was  fail- 
ing him.  Exhaustion,  if  it  led  to  no  worse  con- 
sequences, would  force  him  to  return  to  the 
house.  In  the  state  of  his  brain  at  that  moment, 
who  could  say  what  the  result  might  be,  if  medi- 
cal help  was  not  called  in  ? 

"I  will  go  for  the  doctor,"  said  Julius,  "if  you 
don't  mind  my  leaving  you." 

It  was  impossible  for  Anne  to  set  any  appre- 
hensions of  her  own  against  the  plain  necessity 
for  summoning  assistance.  They  found  the  key 
of  the  gate  in  the  pocket  of  Geoffrey's  coat  up 
stairs.  Anne  went  with  Julius  to  let  him  out. 
"How  can  I  thank  you!"  she  said,  gratefully. 
"  What  should  I  have  done  without  you .'" 

"I  won't  be  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help," 
he  answered,  and  left  her. 

She  secured  the  gate  again,  and  went  back  to 
the  cottage.  The  sen-ant  met  her  at  the  door, 
and  proposed  calling  up  Hester  Dethridge. 

"  We  don't  know  what  the  master  may  do 
•while  his  brother's  away,"  said  the  girl.  "  And 
one  more  of  us  isn't  one  too  many,  when  we  are 
only  women  in  the  house." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Anne.  "  Wake 
your  mistress." 

After  ascending  the  stairs,  they  looked  out  into 
the  garden,  through  the  window  at  the  end  of 
the  passage  on  the  upper  floor.  He  was  still 
going  round  and  round,  but  very  slowly:  his 
pace  was  fast  slackening  to  a  walk. 

Anne  went  back  to  her  room,  and  waited  near 
the  open  door — ready  to  close  and  fasten  it  in- 
stantly if  any  thing  occurred  to  alarm  her. 
"How  changed  I  am!"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"  Every  thing  frightens  me,  now." 

The  inference  was  the  natural  one — but  not 
the  true  one.  The  change  was  not  in  herself, 
but  in  the  situation  in  which  she  was  placed. 
Her  position  during  the  investigation  at  Lady 
Lundie's  house  had  tried  her  moral  courage 
only.  It  had  exacted  from  her  one  of  those  no- 
ble efforts  of  self-sacrifice  which  the  hidden 
forces  in  a  woman's  nature  are  essentially  ca- 
pable of  making.  Her  position  at  the  cottage 
tried  her  physical  courage :  it  called  on  her  to 
rise  superior  to  the  sense  of  actual  bodily  dan- 
ger— while  that  danger  was  lurking  in  the  dark. 
There,  the  woman's  nature  sank  under  the  stress 
laid  on  it — there,  her  courage  could  strike  no 
root  in  the  strength  of  her  love — there,  the  ani- 
mal instincts  were  the  instincts  appealed  to  ;  and 
the  firmness  wanted  was  the  firmness  of  a  man. 

Hester  Dethridge's  door  opened.  She  walked 
straight  into  Anne's  room. 

The  yellow  clay-cold  color  of  her  face  showed 
a  faint  flush  of  warmth ;  its  deathlike  stillness 
was  stirred  by  a  touch  of  life.  The  stony  eyes, 
fixed  as  ever  in  their  gaze,  shone  strangely  with 
a  dim  inner  lustre.  Her  gray  hair,  so  neatly 
arranged  at  other  times,  was  in  disorder  under 
her  cap.  All  her  movements  were  quicker  than 
usual.  Something  had  roused  the  stagnant  vi- 
tality in  the  woman — it  was  working  in  her 
mind ;  it  was  forcing  itself  outward  into  her 


face.  The  servants  at  Windygates,  in  past  times, 
had  seen  these  signs,  and  had  known  them  for 
a  warning  to  leave  Hester  Dethridge  to  herself. 

Anne  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  what  had 
happened. 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  being  disturbed  ?" 

She  wrote  on  her  slate :  ' '  I'm  glad  to  be  dis- 
turbed. I  have  been  dreaming  bad  dreams. 
It's  good  for  me  to  be  wakened,  when  sleep  takes 
me  backward  in  my  life.  What's  wrong  with 
you?  Frightened?" 

"Yes." 

She  wrote  again,  and  pointed  toward  the  gar- 
den with  one  hand,  while  she  held  the  slate  up 
with  the  other  :  "  Frightened  of  him  f" 

"  Terribly  frightened." 

She  wrote  for  the  third  time,  and  offered  the 
slate  to  Anne  with  a  ghastly  smile:  "I  have 
been  through  it  all.  I  know.  You're  only  at 
the  beginning  now.  He'll  put  the  wrinkles  in 
your  face,  and  the  gray  in  your  hair.  There  will 
come  a  time  when  you'll  wish  yourself  dead  and 
buried.  You  will  live  through  it,  for  all  that. 
Look  at  Me." 

As  she  read  the  last  three  words,  Anne  heard 
the  garden  door  below  opened  and  banged  to 
again.  She  caught  Hester  Dethridge  by  the 
arm,  and  listened.  The  tramp  of  Geoffrey's 
feet,  staggering  heavily  in  the  passage,  gave  token 
of  his  approach  to  the  stairs.  He  was  talking  to 
himself,  still  possessed  by  the  delusion  that  he 
was  at  the  foot-race.  "Five  to  four  on  Dela- 
mayn.  Delamayn's  won.  Three  cheers  for  the 
South,  and  one  cheer  more.  Devilish  long  race. 
Night  already !  Perry !  where's  Perry  ?" 

He  advanced,  staggering  from  side  to  side  of 
the  passage.  The  stairs  below  creaked  as  he  set 
his  foot  on  them.  Hester  Dethridge  dragged 
herself  free  from  Anne,  advanced,  with  her  can- 
dle in  her  hand,  and  threw  open  Geoffrey's  bed- 
room door  ;  returned  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  ; 
and  stood  there,  firm  as  a  rock,  waiting  for  him. 
He  looked  up,  as  he  set  his  foot  on  the  next 
stair,  and  met  the  view  of  Hester's  face,  brightly 
illuminated  by  the  candle,  looking  down  at  him. 
On  the  instant  he  stopped,  rooted  to  the  place 
on  which  he  stood.  "Ghost!  witch!  devil!" 
he  cried  out,  "  take  your  eyes  off  me !"  He 
shook  his  fist  at  her  furiously,  with  an  oath — 
sprang  back  into  the  hall — and  shut  himself  into 
the  dining-room  from  the  sight  of  her.  The 
panic  which  had  seized  him  once  already  in  the 
kitchen-garden  at  Windygates,  under  the  eyes 
of  the  dumb  cook,  had  fastened  its  hold  on  him 
once  more.  Frightened — absolutely  frightened 
— of  Hester  Dethridge ! 

The  gate  bell  rang.  Julius  had  returned  with 
the  doctor. 

Anne  gave  the  key  to  the  girl  to  let  them  in. 
Hester  wrote  on  her  slate,  as  composedly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  :  "They'll  find  me  in  the 
kitchen,  if  they  want  me.  I  sha'n't  go  back  to 
my  bedroom.  My  bedroom's  full  of  bad  dreams." 
She  descended  the  stairs.  Anne  waited  in  the 
upper  passage,  looking  over  into  the  hall  below. 
"Your  brother  is  in  the  drawing-room,"  she 
called  down  to  Julius.  "  The  landlady  Is  in  the 
kitchen,  if  you  want  her."  She  returned  to  her 
room,  and  waited  for  what  might  happen  next. 

After  a  brief  interval  she  heard  the  drawing- 
room  door  open,  and  the  voices  of  the  men  out- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


side.  There  seemed  to  be  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  Geoffrey  to  ascend  the  stairs  ;  he  per- 
sisted in  declaring  that  Hester  Dethridge  was 
waiting  for  him  at  the  top  of  them.  After  a  lit- 
tle they  persuaded  him  that  the  way  was  free. 
Anne  heard  them  ascend  the  stairs  and  close 
his  bedroom  door. 

Another  and  a  longer  interval  passed  before 
the  door  opened  again.  The  doctor  was  going 
away.  He  said  his  parting  words  to  Julius  in  the 
passage.  "Look  in  at  him  from  time  to  time 
through  the  night,  and  give  him  another  dose  of 
the  sedative  mixture  if  he  wakes.  There  is  no- 
thing to  be  alarmed  about  in  the  restlessness  and 
the  fever.  They  are  only  the  outward  manifest- 
ations of  some  serious  mischief  hidden  under 
them.  Send  for  the  medical  man  who  has  last 
attended  him.  Knowledge  of  the  patient's  con- 
stitution is  very  important  knowledge  in  this 
case. " 

As  Julius  returned  from  letting  the  doctor  out, 
Anne  met  him  in  the  hall.  She  Avas  at  once 
struck  by  the  worn  look  in  his  face,  and  by  the 
fatigue  which  expressed  itself  in  all  his  move- 
ments. 

"You  want  rest,"  she  said.  "Pray  go  to 
your  room.  I  have  heard  what  the  doctor  said 
to  you.  Leave  it  to  the  landlady  and  to  me  to 
sit  up." 

Julius  owned  that  he  had  been  traveling  from 
Scotland  during  the  previous  night.  But  he  was 
unwilling  to  abandon  the  responsibility  of  watch- 
ing his  brother.  ' '  You  are  not  strong  enough, 
I  am  sure,  to  take  my  place,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"  And  Geoffrey  has  some  unreasoning  horror  of 
the  landlady,  which  makes  it  very  undesirable 
that  he  should  see  her  again,  in  his  present  state. 
I  will  go  up  to  my  room,  and  rest  on  the  bed.  If 
you  hear  any  thing  you  have  only  to  come  and 
call  me." 

An  hour  more  passed. 

Anne  went  to  Geoffrey's  door  and  listened. 
He  was  stirring  in  his  bed,  and  muttering  to  him- 
self. She  went  on  to  the  door  of  the  next  room, 
which  Julius  had  left  partly  open.  Fatigue  had 
overpowered  him ;  she  heard,  within,  the  quiet 
breathing  of  a  man  in  a  sound  sleep.  Anne 
turned  back  again  resolved  not  to  disturb  him. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  hesitated — not 
knowing  what  to  do.  Her  horror  of  entering 
Geoffrey's  room,  by  herself,  was  insurmountable. 
But  who  else  was  to  do  it  ?  The  girl  had  gone 
to  bed.  The  reason  which  Julius  had  given  for 
not  employing  the  assistance  of  Hester  Deth- 
ridge was  unanswerable.  She  listened  again  at 
Geoffrey's  door.  No  sound  was  now  audible  in 
the  room  to  a  person  in  the  passage  outside. 
Would  it  be  well  to  look  in,  and  make  sure  that 
he  had  only  fallen  asleep  again  ?  She  hesitated 
once  more — she  was  still  hesitating,  when  Hes- 
ter Dethridge  appeared  from  the  kitchen. 

She  joined  Anne  at  the  top  of  the  stairs — 
looked  at  her — and  wrote  a  line  on  her  slate : 
"Frightened  to  go  in ?  Leave  it  to  Me." 

The  silence  in  the  room  justified  the  inference 
that  he  was  asleep.  If  Hester  looked  in,  Hes- 
ter could  do  no  harm  now.  Anne  accepted  the 
proposal. 

"If  you  find  any  thing  wrong,"  she  said, 
"  don't  disturb  his  brother.  Come  to  me  first." 

With  that  caution  she  withdrew.  It  was  then 
nearly  two  in  the  morning.  She,  like  Julius, 


was  sinking  from  fatigue.  After  waiting  a  little, 
and  hearing  nothing,  she  threw  herself  on  the 
sofa  in  her  room.  If  any  thing  happened,  a 
knock  at  the  door  would  rouse  her  instantly. 

In  the  mean  while  Hester  Dethridge  opened 
Geoffrey's  bedroom  door  and  went  in. 

The  movements  and  the  mutterings  which 
Anne  had  heard,  had  been  movements  and  mut- 
terings in  his  sleep.  The  doctor's'  composing 
draught,  partially  disturbed  in  its  operation  for 
the  moment  only,  had  recovered  its  sedative  in- 
fluence on  his  brain.  Geoffrey  was  in  a  deep 
and  quiet  sleep. 

Hester  stood  near  the  door,  looking  at  him. 
She  moved  to  go  out  again — stopped — and  fixed 
her  eyes  suddenly  on  one  of  the  inner  corners 
of  the  room. 

The  same  sinister  change  which  had  passed 
over  her  once  already  in  Geoffrey's  presence, 
when  they  met  in  the  kitchen-garden  at  Windy- 
gates,  now  passed  over  her  again.  Her  closed 
lips  dropped  apart.  Her  eyes  slowly  dilated  — 
moved,  inch  by  inch  from  the  corner,  following 
something  along  the  empty  wall,  in  the  direction 
of  the  bed — stopped  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
exactly  above  Geoffrey's  sleeping  face — stared, 
rigid  and  glittering,  as  if  they  saw  a  sight  of 
horror  close  over  it.  He  sighed  faintly  in  his 
sleep.  The  sound,  slight  as  it  was,  broke  the 
spell  that  held  her.  She  slowly  lifted  her  with- 
ered hands,  and  wrung  them  above  her  head  ; 
fled  back  across  the  passage ;  and,  rushing  into 
her  room,  sank  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 

Now,  in  the  dead  of  night,  a  strange  thing 
happened.  Now,  in  the  silence  and  the  dark- 
ness, a  hideous  secret  was  revealed. 

In  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  room — with  all 
the  other  inmates  of  the  house  sleeping  round  her 
— the  dumb  woman  threw  off  the  mysterious  and 
terrible  disguise  under  which  she  deliberately 
isolated  herself  among  her  fellow-creatures  in  the 
hours  of  the  day.  Hester  Dethridge  spoke.  In 
low,  thick,  smothered  accents — in  a  wild  litany 
of  her  own — she  prayed.  She  called  upon  the 
mercy  of  God  for  deliverance  from  herself;'  for 
deliverance  from  the  possession  of  the  Devil ; 
for  blindness  to  fall  on  her,  for  death  to  strike 
her,  so  that  she  might  never  see  that  unnamed 
Horror  more !  Sobs  shook  the  whole  frame  of 
the  stony  woman  whom  nothing  human  moved 
at  other  times.  Tears  poured  over  those  clay- 
cold  cheeks.  One  by  one,  the  frantic  words  of 
her  prayer  died  away  on  her  lips.  Fierce  shud- 
dering "fits  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She 
started  up  from  her  knees  in  the  darkness. 
Light !  light !  light !  The  unnamed  Horror  was 
behind  her  in  his  room.  The  unnamed  Horror 
was  looking  at  her  through  his  open  door.  She 
found  the  match-box,  and  lit  the  candle  on  her 
table — lit  the  two  other  candles  set  for  ornament 
only  on  the  mantle-piece — and  looked  all  round 
the  brightly  lighted  little  room.  "Aha!"  she 
said  to  herself,  wiping  the  cold  sweat  of  her 
agony  from  her  face.  ' '  Candles  to  other  peo- 
ple. God's  light  to  me.  Nothing  to  be  seen! 
nothing  to  be  seen ! "  Taking  one  of  the  candles 
in  her  hand,  she  crossed  the  passage,  with  her 
head  down,  turned  her  back  on  Geoffrey's  open 
door,  closed  it  quickly  and  softly,  stretching  out 
her  hand  behind  her,  and  retreated  again  to  her 
own  room.  She  fastened  the  door,  and  took  an 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


ink-bottle  and  a  pen  from  the  mantle-piece. 
After  considering  for  a  moment,  she  hung  a 
handkerchief  over  the  keyhole,  and  laid  an  old 
shawl  longwise  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  so  as 
to  hide  the  light  in  her  room  from  the  observa- 
tion of  any  one  in  the  house  who  might  wake 
and  come  that  way.  This  done,  she  opened  the 
upper  part  of  her  dress,  and,  slipping  her  fingers 
into  a  secret  pocket  hidden  in  the  inner  side  of 
her  stays,  produced  from  it  some  neatly  folded 
leaves  of  thin  paper.  Spread  out  on  the  table,  the 
leaves  revealed  themselves — all  but  the  last — as 
closely  covered  with  writing,  in  her  own  hand. 

The  first  leaf  was  headed  by  this  inscription  : 
"My  Confession.  To  be  put  into  my  coflin,  and 
to  be  buried  with  me  when  I  die." 

She  turned  the  manuscript  over,  so  as  to  get  at 
the  last  page.  The  greater  part  of  it  was  left 
blank.  A  few  lines  of  writing,  at  the  top,  bore 
the  date  of  the  day  of  the  week  and  month  on 
which  Lady  Lundie  had  dismissed  her  from  her 
situation  at  Windygates.  The  entry  was  ex- 
pressed in  these  terms : 

"  I  have  seen  IT  again  to-day.  The  first  time 
for  two  months  past.  In  the  kitchen-garden. 
Standing  behind  the  young  gentleman  whose 
name  is  Delamayn.  Resist  the  Devil,  and  he 
will  flee  from  you.  I  have  resisted.  By  prayer. 
By  meditation  in  solitude.  By  reading  good 
books.  I  have  left  my  place.  I  have  lost  sight 
of  the  young  gentleman  for  good.  Who  will  IT 
stand  behind?  and  point  to  next?  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  me!  Christ  have  mercy  upon 
me!" 

Under  this  she  now  added  the  following  lines, 
first  carefully  prefixing  the  date : 

' '  I  have  seen  IT  again  to-night.  I  notice  one 
awful  change.  IT  has  appeared  twice  behind  the 
same  person.  This  has  never  happened  b'efore. 
This  makes  the  temptation  more  terrible  than 
ever.  To-night,  in  his  bedroom,  between  the 
bed-head  and  the  wall,  I  have  seen  IT  behind 
young  Mr.  Delamayn  again.  The  head  just 
above  his  face,  and  the  finger  pointing  down- 
ward at  his  throat.  Twice  behind  this  one  man. 
And  never  twica  behind  any  other  living  creat- 
ure till  no\v.  If  I  see  IT  a  third  time  behind 
him — Lord  deliver  me  !  Christ  deliver  me !  I 
daren't  think  of  it.  He  shall  leave  my  cottage 
to-morrow.  I  would  fain  have  drawn  back  from 
the  bargain,  when  the  stranger  took  the  lodgings 
for  his  friend,  and  the  friend  proved  to  be  Mr. 
Delamayn.  I  didn't  like  it,  even  then.  After 
the  warning  to-night,  my  mind  is  made  up.  He 
shall  go.  He  may  have  his  money  back,  if  he 
likes.  He  shall  go.  (Memorandum:  Felt  the 
temptation  whispering  this  time,  and  the  terror 
tearing  at  me  all  the  while,  as  I  have  never  felt 
them  yet.  Resisted,  as  before,  by  prayer.  Am 
now  going  down  stairs  to  meditate  against  it  in 
solitude — to  fortify  myself  against  it  by  good 
books.  Lord  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner!)" 

In  those  words  she  closed  the  entry,  and  put 
the  manuscript  back  in  the  secret  pocket  in  her 
stays. 

She  went  down  to  the  little  room  looking  on 
the  garden,  which  had  once  been  her  brother's 
study.  There  she  lit  a  lamp,  and  took  some 
books  from  a  shelf  that  hung  against  the  wall. 
The  books  were  the  Bible,  a  volume  of  Method- 
ist sermons,  and  a  set  of  collected  Memoirs  of 
Methodist  saints.  Ranging  these  last  carefully 


round  her,  in  an  order  of  her  own,  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  sat  down  with  the  Bible  on  her  lap  to 
watch  out  the  night. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-THIRD. 

WHAT  had  happened  in  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness? 

This  was  Anne's  first  thought,  when  the  sun- 
light poured  in  at  her  window,  and  woke  her  the 
next  morning. 

She  made  immediate  inquiry  of  the  servant. 
The  girl  could  only  speak  for  herself.  Nothing 
had  occurred  to  disturb  her  after  she  had  gone 
to  bed.  Her  master  was  still,  she  believed,  in 
his  room.  Mrs.  Dethridge  was  at  her  work  in 
the  kitchen. 

Anne  went  to  the  kitchen.  Hester  Dethridge 
was  at  her  usual  occupation  at  that  time — pre- 
paring the  breakfast.  The  slight  signs  of  ani- 
mation which  Anne  had  noticed  in  her  when 
they  last  met  appeared  no  more.  The  dull  look 
was  back  again  in  her  stony  eyes ;  the  lifeless 
torpor  possessed  all  her  movements.  Asked  if 
any  thing  had  happened  in  the  night,  she  slowly 
shook  her  stolid  head,  slowly  made  the  sign  with 
her  hand  which  signified,  "Nothing." 

Leaving  the  kitchen,  Anne  saw  Julius  in  the 
front  garden.  She  went  out  and  joined  him. 

"  I  believe  I  have  to  thank  your  consideration 
for  me  for  some  hours  of  rest,"  he  said.  "It 
was  five  in  the  morning  when  I  woke.  I  hope 
you  had  no  reason  to  regret  having  left  me  to 
sleep  ?  I  went  into  Geoffrey's  room,  and  found 
him  stirring.  A  second  dose  of  the  mixture 
composed  him  again.  The  fever  has  gone.  He 
looks  weaker  and  paler,  but  in  other  respects 
like  himself.  We  will  return  directly  to  the 
question  of  his  health.  I  have  something  to  say- 
to  you,  first,  about  a  change  which  may  be  com- 
ing in  your  life  here." 

" Has  he  consented  to  the  separation?" 

"  No.  He  is  as  obstinate  about  it  as  ever.  I 
have  placed  the  matter  before  him  in  every  pos- 
sible light.  He  still  refuses,  positively  refuses,  a 
provision  which  would  make  him  an  independent 
man  for  life. " 

"Is  it  the  provision  he  might  have  had,  Lord 
Holchester,  if —  ?" 

"  If  he  had  married  Mrs.  Glenarm?  No.  It 
is  impossible,  consistently  with  my  duty  to  my 
mother,  and  with  what  I  owe  to  the  position  in 
which  my  father's  death  has  placed  me,  that  I 
can  offer  him  such  a  fortune  as  Mrs.  Glenarm's. 
Still,  it  is  a  handsome  income  which  he  is  mad 
enough  to  refuse.  I  shall  persist  in  pressing  it 
on  him.  He  must  and  shall  take  it. " 

Anne  felt  no  reviving  hope  roused  in  her  by 
his  last  words.  She  turned  to  another  subject. 

"  You  had  something  to  tell  me,"  she  said. 
"  You  spoke  of  a  change." 

"  True.  The  landlady  here  is  a  very  strange 
person ;  and  she  has  done  a  very  strange  thing. 
She  has  given  Geoffrey  notice  to  quit  these  lodg- 
ings." 

"  Notice  to  quit  ?"  Anne  repeated,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Yes.  In  a  formal  letter.  She  handed  it  to 
me  open,  as  soon  as  I  was  up  this  morning.  It 
was  impossible  to  get  any  explanation  from  her. 
The  poor  dumb  creature  simply  wrote  on  her 


216 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


slate :  '  He  may  have  his  money  back,  if  he  likes : 
he  shall  go!'  Greatly  to  my  surprise  (for  the 
woman  inspires  him  with  the  strongest  aversion) 
Geoffrey  refuses  to  go  until  his  term  is  up.  I 
have  made  the  peace  between  them  for  to-day. 
Mrs.  Dethridge,  very  reluctantly,  consents  to  give 
him  four-and-twenty  hours.  And  there  the  mat- 
ter rests  at  present. " 

"What  can  her  motive  be?"  said  Anne. 

"It's  useless  to  inquire.  Her  mind  is  evident- 
ly off  its  balance.  One  thing  is  clear,  Geoffrey 
can  not  keep  you  here  much  longer.  The  com- 
ing change  will  remove  you  from  this  dismal 
place — which  is  one  thing  gained.  And  it  is 
quite  possible  that  new  scenes  and  new  surround- 
ings may  have  their  influence  on  Geoffrey  for 
good.  His  conduct — otherwise  quite  incompre- 
hensible— may  be  the  result  of  some  latent  nerv- 
ous irritation  which  medical  help  might  reach. 
I  don't  attempt  to  disguise  from  myself  or  from 
you,  that  your  position  here  is  a  most  deplorable 
one.  But  before  we  despair  of  the  future,  let  us 
at  least  inquire  whether  there  is  any  explanation 
of  my  brother's  present  behavior  to  be  found  in 
the  present  state  of  my  brother's  health.  I  have 
been  considering  what  the  doctor  said  to  me  last 
night.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  the  best 
medical  advice  on  Geoffrey's  case  which  is  to  be 
had.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  daren't  tell  you  what  I  think,  Lord  Hol- 
chester.  I  will  try — it  is  a  very  small  return  to 
make  for  your  kindness — I  will  try  to  see  my 
position  with  your  eyes,  not  with  mine.  The  best 
medical  advice  that  you  can  obtain  is  the  advice 
of  Mr.  Speedwell.  It  was  he  who  first  made 
the  discovery  that  your  brother  was  in  broken 
health." 

"  The  very  man  for  our  purpose !  I  will  send 
him  here  to-day  or  to-morrow.  Is  there  any 
thing  else  I  can  do  for  you?  I  shall  see  Sir 
Patrick  as  soon  as  I  get  to  town.  Have  you 
any  message  for  him  ?" 

Anne  hesitated.  Looking  attentively  at  her, 
Julius  noticed  that  she  changed  color  when  he 
mentioned  Sir  Patrick's  name. 

' '  Will  you  say  that  I  gratefully  thank  him  for 
the  letter  which  Lady  Holchester  was  so  good 
as  to  give  me  last  night,"  she  replied.  "And 
will  you  entreat  him,  from  me,  not  to  expose 
himself,  on  my  account,  to — "  she  hesitated,  and 
finished  the  sentence  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground 
— "to  what  might  happen,  if  he  came  here  and 
insisted  on  seeing  me." 

"Does  he  propose  to  do  that?" 

She  hesitated  again.  The  little  nervous  con- 
traction of  her  lips  at  one  side  of  the  mouth  be- 
came more  marked  than  usual.  "  He  writes  that 
his  anxiety  is  unendurable,  and  that  he  is  resolved 
to  see  me,"  she  answered,  softly. 

' '  He  is  likely  to  hold  to  his  resolution,  I  think, " 
said  Julius.  "When  I  saw  him  yesterday,  Sir 
Patrick  spoke  of  you  in  terms  of  admiration — " 

He  stopped.  The  bright  tears  were  glittering 
on  Anne's  eyelashes ;  one  of  her  hands  was  toying 
nervously  with  something  hidden  (possibly  Sir 
Patrick's  letter)  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  "  I 
thank  him  with  my  whole  heart,"  she  said,  in 
low,  faltering  tones.  "But  it  is  best  that  he 
should  not  come  here." 

"  Would  you  like  to  write  to  him  ?" 

"I  think  I  should  prefer  your  giving  him  my 
message." 


Julius  understood  that  the  subject  was  to  pro- 
ceed no  further.  Sir  Patrick's  letter  had  pro- 
duced some  impression  on  her,  which  the  sensi- 
tive nature  of  the  woman  seemed  to  shrink  from 
acknowledging,  even  to  herself.  They  turned 
back  to  enter  the  cottage.  At  the  door  they 
were  met  by  a  surprise.  Hester  Dethridge,  with 
her  bonnet  on — dressed,  at  that  hour  of  the 
morning,  to  go  out ! 

"Are  you  going  to  market  already?"  Anne 
asked. 

Hester  shook  her  head. 

"  When  are  you  coming  back  ?" 

Hester  wrote  on  her  slate:  "Not  till  the 
night-time." 

Without  another  word  of  explanation  she 
pulled  her  veil  down  over  her  face,  and  made 
for  the  gate.  The  key  had  been  left  in  the  din- 
ing-room by  Julius,  after  he  had  let  the  doctor 
out.  Hester  had  it  in  her  hand.  She  opened 
the  gate,  and  closed  the  door  after  her,  leaving 
the  key  in  the  lock.  At  the  moment  when  the 
door  banged  to  Geoffrey  appeared  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

"Where's  the  key?"  he  asked.  "Who's 
gone  out  ?" 

His  brother  answered  the  question.  He  looked 
backward  and  forward  suspiciously  between  Ju- 
lius and  Anne. .  "  What  does  she  go  out  for  at 
this  time?"  he  said.  "Has  she  left  the  house 
to  avoid  Me  ?" 

Julius  thought  this  ftie  likely  explanation. 
Geoffrey  went  down  sulkily  to  the  gate  to  lock 
it,  and  returned  to  them,  with  the  key  in  his 
pocket. 

"I'm  obliged  to  be  careful  of  the  gate," he 
said.  "The  neighborhood  swarms  with  beggars 
and  tramps.  If  you  want  to  go  out,"  he  added, 
turning  pointedly  to  Anne,  "I'm  at  your  service, 
as  a  good  husband  ought  to  be." 

After  a  hurried  breakfast  Julius  took  his  de- 
parture. "  I  don't  accept  your  refusal,"  he  said 
to  his  brother,  before  Anne.  "  You  will  see  me 
here  again. "  Geoffrey  obstinately  repeated  the 
refusal.  "If  you  come  here  every  day  of  your 
life,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  just  thwsame." 

The  gate  closed  on  Julius.  Anne  returned 
again  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber. 
Geoffrey  entered  the  drawing-room,  placed  the 
volumes  of  the  Newgate  Calendar  on  the  table 
before  him,  and  resumed  the  reading  which  he 
had  been  unable  to  continue  on  the  evening  be- 
fore. 

Hour  after  hour  he  doggedly  plodded  through 
one  case  'of  murder  after  another.  lie  had 
read  one  good  half  of  the  horrid  chronicle  of 
crime  before  his  power  of  fixing  his  attention 
began  to  fail  him.  Then  he  lit  his  pipe,  and 
went  out  to  think  over  it  in  the  garden.  How- 
ever the  atrocities  of  which  he  had  been  reading 
might  differ  in  other  respects,  there  was  one  ter- 
rible point  of  resemblance,  which  he  had  not  an- 
ticipated, and  in  which  every  one  of  the  cases 
'  agreed.  Sooner  or  later,  there  was  the  dead  body 
always  certain  to  be  found ;  always  bearing  its 
dumb  witness,  in  the  traces  of  poison  or  in  the 
marks  of  violence,  to  the  crime  committed  on  it. 

He  walked  to  and  fro  slowly,  still  pondering 
over  the  problem  which  had  first  found  its  way 
into  his  mind  when  he  had  stopped  in  the  front 
garden,  and  had  looked  up  at  Anne's  window  in 
the  dark.  "How?"  That  had  been  the  one 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


217 


question  before  him,  from  the  time  when  the 
lawyer  had  annihilated  his  hopes  of  a  divorce. 
It  remained  the  one  question  still.  There  was 
no  answer  to  it  in  his  own  brain ;  there  was 
no  answer  to  it  in  the  book  which  he  had  been 
consulting.  Every  thing  was  in  his  favor  if  he 
could  only  find  out  "how."  He  had  got  his 
hated  wife  up  stairs  at  his  mercy — thanks  to  his 
refusal  of  the  money  which  Julius  had  offered  to 
him.  lie  was  living  in  a  place  absolutely  se- 
cluded from  public  observation  on  all  sides  of 
it — thanks  to  his  resolution  to  remain  at  the  cot- 
tage, even  after  his  landlady  had  insulted  him  by 
sending  him  a  notice  to  quit.  Every  thing  had 
been  prepared,  every  thing  had  been  sacrificed, 
to  the  fulfillment  of  one  purpose — and  how  to  at- 
tain that  purpose  was  still  the  same  impenetrable 
mystery  to  him  which  it  had  been  from  the  first ! 

What  was  the  other  alternative?  To  accept 
the  proposal  which  Julius  had  made.  In  other 
words,  to  give  up  his  vengeance  on  Anne,  and  to 
turn  his  back  on  the  splendid  future  which  Mrs. 
Glenarra's  devotion  still  offered  to  him. 

Never !  He  would  go  back  to  the  books.  He 
was  not  at  the  end  of  them.  The  slightest  hint 
in  the  pages  which  were  still  to  be  read  might 
set  his  sluggish  brain  working  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. The  way  to  be  rid  of  her,  without  exciting 
the  suspicion  of  any  living  creature,  in  the  house 
or  out  of  it,  was  a  way  that  might  be  found  yet. 

Could  a  man,  in  his  position  of  life,  reason  in 
this  brutal  manner?  could  he  act  in  this  merci- 
less way  ?  Surely  the  thought  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do  must  have  troubled  him  this  time ! 

Pause  for  a  moment — and  look  back  at  him  in 
the  past. 

Did  he  feel  any  remorse  when  he  was  plotting 
the  betrayal  of  Arnold  in  the  garden  at  Windy- 
gates  ?  The  sense  which  feels  remorse  had  not 
been  put  into  him.  What  he  is  now  is  the  le- 
gitimate consequence  of  what  he  was  then.  A 
fur  more  serious  temptation  is  now  urging  him  to 
commit  a  far  more  serious  crime.  How  is  he  to 
resist  ?  Will  his  skill  in  rowing  (as  Sir  Patrick 
once  put  it),  his  swiftness  in  running,  his  admi- 
rable capacity  and  endurance  in  other  physical 
exercises,  help  him  to  win  a  purely  moral  victory 
over  his  own  selfishness  and  his  own  cruelty? 
No !  The  moral  and  mental  neglect  of  himself, 
which  the  material  tone  of  public  feeling  about 
him  has  tacitly  encouraged,  has  left  him  at  the 
mercy  of  the  worst  instincts  in  his  nature — of 
all  that  is  most  vile  and  of  all  that  is  most  dan- 
gerous in  the  composition  of  the  natural  man. 
With  the  mass  of  his  fellows,  no  harm  out  of  the 
common  has  come  of  this,  because  no  tempta- 
tion out  of  the  common  has  passed  their  way. 
But  with  him,  the  case  is  reversed.  A  tempta- 
tion out  of  the  common  has  passed  his  way. 
How  does  it  find  him  prepared  to  meet  it?  It 
finds  him,  literally  and  exactly,  what  his  training 
has  left  him,  in  the  presence  of  any  temptation 
small  or  great — a  defenseless  man. 

Geoffrey  returned  to  the  cottage.  The  sen-ant 
stopped  him  in  the  passage,  to  ask  at  what  time 
he  wished  to  dine.  Instead  of  answering,  he  in- 
quired angrily  for  Mrs.  Dethridge.  Mrs.  Deth- 
ridge had  not  come  back. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  bad 
been  out  since  the  earlv  morning.  This  had 
0 


never  happened  before.  Vague  suspicions  of 
her,  one  more  monstrous  than  another,  began  to 
rise  in  Geoffrey's  mind.  Between  the  drink  and 
the  fever,  he  had  been  (as  Julius  had  told  him) 
wandering  in  his  mind  during  a  part  of  the 
night.  Had  he  let  any  thing  out  in  that  condi- 
tion ?  Had  Hester  heard  it  ?  And  was  it,  by 
any  chance,  at  the  bottom  of  her  long  absence 
and  her  notice  to  quit  ?  He  determined — with- 
out letting  her  see  that  he  suspected  her — to 
clear  up  that  doubt  as  soon  as  his  landlady  re- 
turned to  the  house. 

The  evening  came.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock 
before  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  The  servant 
came  to  ask  for  the  key.  Geoffrey  rose  to  go  to 
the  gate  himself— and  changed  his  mind  before 
he  left  the  room.  Her  suspicions  might  be 
roused  (supposing  it  to  be  Hester  who  was  wait- 
ing for  admission)  if  he  opened  the  gate  to  her 
when  the  servant  was  there  to  do  it.  He  gave 
the  girl  the  key,  and  kept  out  of  sight. 

"Dead  tired!" — the  servant  said  to  herself, 
seeing  her  mistress  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  over 
the  gate. 

"Dead  tired!" — Geoffrey  said  to  himself,  ob- 
serving Hester  suspiciously  as  she  passed  him  in 
the  passage  on  her  way  up  stairs  to  take  off  her 
bonnet  in  her  own  room. 

"  Dead  tired !" — Anne  said  to  herself,  meeting 
Hester  on  the  upper  floor,  and  receiving  from  her 
a  letter  in  Blanche's  handwriting,  delivered  to 
the  mistress  of  the  cottage  by  the  postman,  who 
had  met  her  at  her  own  gate. 

******* 

Having  given  the  letter  to  Anne,  Hester 
Dethridge  withdrew  to  her  bedroom. 

Geoffrey  closed  the  door  of  the  drawing-room, 
in  which  the  candles  were  burning,  and  went 
into  the  dining-room,  in  which  there  was  no 
light.  Leaving  the  door  ajar,  he  waited  to  in- 
tercept his  landlady  on  her  way  back  to  her  sup- 
per in  the  kitchen. 

Hester  wearily  secured  her  door,  wearily  lit 
the  candles,  wearily  put  the  pen  and  ink  on  the 
table.  For  some  minutes  after  this  she  was 
compelled  to  sit  down,  and  rally  her  strength 
and  fetch  her  breath.  After  a  little  she  was 
able  to  remove  her  upper  clothing.  This  done, 
she  took  the  manuscript  inscribed,  "  My  Confes- 
sion," ont  of  the  secret  pocket  of  her  stays — 
turned  to  the  last  leaf  as  before — and  wrote  an- 
other entry,  under  the  entry  made  on  the  pre- 
vious night. 

"  This  morning  I  gave  him  notice  to  quit,  and 
offered  him  his  money  back  if  he  wanted  it.  He 
refuses  to  go.  He  shall  go  to-morrow,  or  I 
will  burn  the  place  over  his  head.  All  through 
to-day  I  have  avoided  him  by  keeping  out  of 
the  house.  No  rest  to  ease  my  mind,  and  no 
sleep  to  close  my  eyes.  I  humbly  bear  my  cross 
as  long  as  my  strength  will  let  me. " 

At  those  words  the  pen  dropped  from  her  fin- 
gers. Her  head  nodded  on  her  breast.  She 
roused  herself  with  a  start.  Sleep  was  the  ene- 
my she  dreaded  :  sleep  brought  dreams. 

She  unfastened  the  window  -  shutters  and 
looked  out  at  the  night.  The  peaceful  moonlight 
was  shining  over  the  garden.  The  clear  depths 
of  the  night  sky  were  soothing  and  beautiful  t«> 
look  at.  What!  Fading  already?  clouds? 


218 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


darkness  ?  No !  Nearly  asleep  once  more. 
She  roused  herself  again,  with  a  start.  There 
was  the  moonlight,  and  there  was  the  garden  as 
bright  under  it  as  ever. 

Dreams  or  no  dreams,  it  was  useless  to  fight 
longer  against  the  weariness  that  overpowered 
her.  She  closed  the  shutters,  and  went  back  to 
the  bed ;  and  put  her  Confession  in  its  custom- 
ary place  at  night,  under  her  pillow. 

She  looked  round  the  room — and  shuddered. 
Every  corner  of  it  was  filled  with  the  terrible 
memories  of  the  past  night.  She  might  wake 
from  the  torture  of  the  dreams  to  find  the  terror 
of  the  Apparition  watching  at  her  bedside.  Was 
there  no  remedy?  no  blessed  safeguard  under 
which  she  might  tranquilly  resign  herself  to 
sleep  ?  A  thought  crossed  her  mind.  The  good 
book — the  Bible.  If  she  slept  with  the  Bible 
under  her  pillow,  there  was  hope  in  the  good 
book — the  hope  of  sleeping  in  peace. 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  put  on  the  gown  and 
the  stays  which  she  had  taken  off.  Her  shawl 
would  cover  her.  It  was  equally  needless  to 
take  the  candle.  The  lower  shutters  would  not 
be  closed  at  that  hour ;  and  if  they  were,  she 
could  lay  her  hand  on  the  Bible,  in  its  place  on 
the  parlor  book-shelf,  in  the  dark. 

She  removed  the  Confession  from  under  the 
pillow.  Not  even  for  a  minute  could  she  prevail 
on  herself  to  leave  it  in  one  room  while  she  was 
away  from  it  in  another.  With  the  manuscript 
folded  up,  and  hidden  in  her  hand,  she  slowly 
descended  the  stairs  again.  Her  knees  trembled 
under  her.  She  was  obliged  to  hold  by  the  ban- 
isters with  the  hand  that  was  free. 

Geoffrey  observed  her  from  the  dining-room, 
on  her  way  down  the  stairs.  He  waited  to  see 
what  she  did,  before  he  showed  himself,  and 
spoke  to  her.  Instead  of  going  on  into  the 
kitchen,  she  stopped  short,  and  entered  the  par- 
lor. Another  suspicious  circumstance!  What 
did  she  want  in  the  parlor,  without  a  candle,  at 
that  time  of  night  ? 

She  went  to  the  book-case — her  dark  figure 
plainly  visible  in  the  moonlight  that  flooded  the 
little  room.  She  staggered  and  put  her  hand  to 
her  head ;  giddy,  to  all  appearance,  from  ex- 
treme fatigue.  She  recovered  herself,  and  took 
a  book  from  the  shelf.  She  leaned  against  the 
wall  after  she  had  possessed  herself  of  the  book. 
Too  weary,  as  it  seemed,  to  get  up  stairs  again 
without  a  little  rest.  Her  arm-chair  was  near 
her.  Better  rest,  for  a  moment  or  two,  to  be 
had  in  that  than  could  be  got  by  leaning  against 
the  wall.  She  sat  down  heavily  in  the  chair, 
with  the  book  on  her  lap.  One  of  her  arms 
hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  with  the  hand 
closed,  apparently  holding  something. 

Her  head  nodded  on  her  breast — recovered 
itself — and  sank  gently  on  the  cushion  at  the 
back  of  the  chair.  Asleep?  Fast  asleep. 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  muscles  of  the  closed 
hand  that  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  slowly 
relaxed.  Something  white  slipped  out  of  her 
hand,  and  lay  in  the  moonlight  on  the  floor. 

Geoffrey  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  and  entered 
the  room  noiselessly  in  his  stockings.  He  picked 
up  the  white  thing  on  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be 
a  collection  of  several  sheets  of  thin  paper,  neatly 
folded  together,  and  closely  covered  with  writing. 

Writing  ?  As  long  as  she  was  awake  she  had 
kept  it  hidden  in  her  hand.  Why  hide  it  ? 


Had  he  let  out  any  thing  to  compromise  him- 
self when  he  was  light-headed  with  the  fever  the 
night  before  ?  and  had  she  taken  it  down  in 
writing  to  produce  against  him?  Possessed  by 
guilty  distrust,  even  that  monstrous  doubt  as- 
sumed a  look  of  probability  to  Geoffrey's  mind. 
He  left  the  parlor  as  noiselessly  as  he  had  entered 
it,  and  made  for  the  candle-light  in  the  drawing- 
room,  determined  to  examine  the  manuscript  in 
his  hand. 

After  carefully  smoothing  out  the  folded  leaves 
on  the  table,  he  turned  to  the  first  page,  and 
read  these  lines. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FOURTH. 

THE   MANUSCRIPT. 
1. 

"  MY  Confession :  To  be  put  into  my  coffin ; 
and  to  be  buried  with  me  when  I  die. 

"  This  is  the  history  of  what  I  did  in  the  time 
of  my  married  life.  Here — known  to  no  other 
mortal  creature,  confessed  to  my  Creator  alone — 
is  the  truth. 

"At  the  great  day  of  the  Resurrection,  we 
shall  all  rise  again  in  our  bodies  as  we  have 
lived.  When  I  am  called  before  the  Judgment 
Seat  I  shall  have  this  in  my  hand. 

"Oh,  just  and  merciful  Judge,  Thou  knowest 
what  I  have  suffered.     My  trust  is  in  Thee. 
2. 

"I  am  the  eldest  of  a  large  family,  born  of 
pious  parents.  We  belonged  to  the  congregation 
of  the  Primitive  Methodists. 

"My  sisters  were  all  married  before  me.  I 
remained  for  some  years  the  only  one  at  home. 
At  the  latter  part  of  the  time  my  mother's  health 
failed ;  and  I  managed  the  house  in  her  place. 
Our  spiritual  pastor,  good  Mr.  Bapchild,  used 
often  to  dine  with  us,  on  Sundays,  between  the 
services.  He  approved  of  my  management  of 
the  house,  and,  in  particular,  of  my  .cooking. 
This  was  not  pleasant  to  my  mother,  who  felt  a 
jealousy  of  my  being,  as  it  were,  set  over  her  in 
her  place.  My  unhappiness  at  home  began  in 
this  way.  My  mother's  temper  got  worse  as  her 
health  got  worse.  My  father  was  much  away 
from  us,  traveling  for  his  business.  I  had  to 
bear  it  all.  About  this  time  I  began  to  think 
it  would  be  well  for  me  if  I  could  many  as  my 
sisters  had  done ;  and  have  good  Mr.  Bapchild 
to  dinner,  between  the  services,  in  a  house  of  my 
own. 

"In  this  frame  of  mind  I  made  acquaintance 
with  a  young  man  who  attended  service  at  our 
chapel. 

"  His  name  was  Joel  Dethridge.  He  had  a 
beautiful  voice.  When  we  sang  hymns,  he  sang 
off  the  same  book  wilh  me.  By  trade  he  was  a 
paper-hanger.  We  had  much  serious  talk  to- 
gether. I  walked  with  him  on  Sundays.  He 
was  a  good  ten  years  younger  than  I  was  ;  and, 
being  only  a  journeyman,  his  worldly  station  was 
below  mine.  My  mother  found  out  the  liking 
that  had  grown  up  between  us.  She  told  my 
father  the  next  time  he  was  at  home.  Also  my 
married  sisters  and  my  brothers.  They  all  join- 
ed together  to  stop  things  from  going  further  be- 
tween me  and  Joel  Dethridge.  I  had  a  hard 
time  of  it.  Mr.  Bapchild  expressed  himself  as 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


219 


feeling  much  grieved  at  the  turn  things  were 
taking.  He  introduced  me  into  a  sermon — not 
by  name,  but  I  knew  who  it  was  meant  for. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  given  way  if  they  had  not 
done  one  thing.  They  made  inquiries  of  my 
young  man's  enemies,  and  brought  wicked  sto- 
ries of  him  to  me  behind  his  back.  This,  after 
\ve  had  sung  off  the  same  hymn-book,  and  walk- 
ed together,  and  agreed  one  with  the  other  on 
religious  subjects,  was  too  much  to  bear.  I  was 
of  age  to  judge  for  myself.  And  I  married  Joel 
Dethridge. 

3. 

"My  relations  all  turned  their  backs  on  me. 
Not  one  of  them  was  present  at  my  marriage ; 
my  brother  Reuben,  in  particular,  who  led  the 
rest,  saying  that  they  had  done  with  me  from 
that  time  forth.  Mr.  Bapchild  was  much  moved; 
he  shed  tears,  and  said  he  would  pray  for 
me. 

"I  was  married  in  London  by  a  pastor  who 
was  a  stranger ;  and  we  settled  in  London  with 
fair  prospects.  I  had  a  little  fortune  of  my  own 
— my  share  of  some  money  left  to  us  girls  by  our 
aunt  Hester,  whom  I  was  named  after.  It  was 
three  hundred  pounds.  Nearly  one  hundred  of 
this  I  spent  in  buying  furniture  to  fit  up  the  lit- 
tle house  we  took  to  live  in.  The  rest  I  gave  to 
my  husband  to  put  into  the  bank  against  the 
time  when  he  wanted  it  to  set  up  in  business  for 
himself. 

"For  three  months,  more  or  less,  we  got  on 
nicely — except  in  one  particular.  My  husband 
never  stirred  in  the  matter  of  starting  in  business 
for  himself. 

"He  was  once  or  twice  cross  with  me  when  I 
said  it  seemed  a  pity  to  be  spending  the  money 
in  the  bank  (which  might  be  afterward  wanted) 
instead  of  earning  more  in  business.  Good  Mr. 
Bapchild,  happening  about  this  time  to  be  in 
London,  staid  over  Sunday,  and  came  to  dine 
with  us  between  the  services.  He  had  tried  to 
make  my  peace  with  my  relations — but  he  had 
not  succeeded.  At  my  request  he  spoke  to  my 
husband  about  the  necessity  of  exerting  himself. 
My  husband  took  it  ill.  I  then  saw  him  serious- 
ly out  of  temper  for  the  first  time.  Good  Mr. 
Bapchild  said  no  more.  He  appeared  to  be 
alarmed  at  what  had  happened ;  and  he  took 
his  leave  early. 

"  Shortly  afterward  my  husband  went  out. 
I  got  tea  ready  for  him — but  he  never  came 
back.  I  got  supper  ready  for  him — but  he  nev- 
er came  back.  It  was  past  twelve  at  night  be- 
fore I  saw  him  again.  ]  was  very  much  startled 
by  the  state  he  came  home  in.  He  didn't  speak 
like  himself,  or  look  like  himself:  he  didn't  seem 
to  know  me — wandered  in  his  mind,  and  fell  all 
in  a  lump  like  on  our  bed.  I  ran  out  and  fetch- 
ed the  doctor  to  him. 

"The  doctor  pulled  him  up  to  the  light,  and 
looked  at  him  ;  smelled  his  breath,  and  dropped 
him  down  again  on  the  bed ;  turned  about,  and 
stared  at  me.  '  What's  the  matter,  Sir?'  I  says. 
'Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know?'  says 
the  doctor.  '  No,  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Why  what  sdrt 
of  a  woman  are  you, '  says  he,  '  not  to  know  a 
drunken  man  when  you  see  him!'  With  that 
he  went  away,  and  left  me  standing  by  the  bed- 
side, all  in  a  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 
•  "Tliis  was  how  I  first  found  out  that  I  was 
the  wife  of  a  drunken  man. 


4. 


"I  have  omitted  to  say  any  thing  about  my 
husband's  family. 

"While  we  were  keeping  company  together 
he  told  me  he  was  an  orphan — with  an  uncle 
and  aunt  in  Canada,  and  an  only  brother  settled 
in  Scotland.  Before  we  were  married  he  gave 
me  a  letter  from  this  brother.  It  was  to  say  that 
he  was  sorry  he  was  not  able  to  come  to  En- 
gland, and  be  present  at  my  marriage,  and  to 
wish  me  joy  and  the  rest  of  it.  Good  Mr.  Bap- 
child (to  whom,  in  my  distress,  I  wrote  word 
privately  of  what  had  happened)  wrote  back  in 
return,  telling  me  to  wait  a  little,  and  see  wheth- 
er my  husband  did  it  again. 

"  I  had  not  long  to  wait.  lie  was  in  liquor 
again  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  Hearing  this, 
Mr.  Bapchild  instructed  me  to  send  him  the  let- 
ter from  my  husband's  brother.  He  reminded 
me  of  some  of  the  stories  about  my  husband, 
which  I  had  refused  to  believe  in  the  time  before 
I  was  married ;  and  he  said  it  might  be  well  to 
make  inquiries. 

"The  end  of  the  inquiries  was  this.  The 
brother,  at  that  very  time,  was  placed  privately 
(by  his  own  request)  under  a  doctor's  care  to 
get  broken  of  habits  of  drinking.  The  craving 
for  strong  liquor  (the  doctor  wrote)  was  in  the 
family.  They  would  be  sober  sometimes  for 
months  together,  drinking  nothing  stronger  than 
tea.  Then  the  fit  would  seize  them ;  and  they 
would  drink,  drink,  drink,  for  days  together,  like 
the  mad  and  miserable  wretches  that  they  were. 

' '  This  was  the  husband  I  was  married  to.  And 
I  had  offended  all  my  relations,  and  estranged 
them  from  me,  for  his  sake.  Here  was  surely 
a  sad  prospect  for  a  woman  after  only  a  few 
months  of  wedded  life ! 

"In  a  year's  time  the  money  in  the  bank  was 
gone ;  and  my  husband  was  out  of  employment. 
He  always  got  work — being  a  first-rate  hand 
when  he  was  sober — and  always  lost  it  again 
when  the  drinking-fit  seized  him.  I  was  loth 
to  leave  our  nice  little  house,  and  part  with  my 
pretty  furniture ;  and  I  proposed  to  him  to  let 
me  try  for  employment,  by  the  day,  as  cook,  and 
so  keep  things  going  while  he  was  looking  out 
again  for  work.  He  was  sober  and  penitent  at 
the  time;  and  he  agreed  to  what  I  proposed. 
And,  more  than  that,  he  took  the  Total  Absti- 
nence Pledge,  and  promised  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  Matters,  as  I  thought,  began  to  look  fairly 
again.  We  had  nobody  but  our  two  selves  to 
think  of.  I  had  borne  no  child,  and  had  no 
prospect  of  bearing  one.  Unlike  most  women, 
I  thought  this  a  mercy  instead  of  a  misfortune. 
In  my  situation  (as  I  soon  grew  to  know)  my 
becoming  a  mother  would  only  have  proved  to 
be  an  aggravation  of  my  hard  lot. 

"The  sort  of  employment  I  wanted  was  not 
to  be  got  in  a  day.  Good  Mr.  Bapchild  gave 
me  a  character;  "and  our  landlord,  a  worthy 
man  (belonging,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  the  Popish 
Church),  spoke  for  me  to  the  steward  of  a  club. 
Still,  it  took  time  to  persuade  people  that  I  was 
the  thorough  good  cook  I  claimed  to  be.  Nigh 
on  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  got  the  chance 
I  had  been  looking  out  for.  I  went  home  in 
good  spirits  (for  me)  to  report  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  found  the  brokers  in  the  house  car- 
rying off  the  furniture  which  I  had  bought  with 
my  own  money  for  sale  by  auction.  I  asked 


2-20 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


them,  how  they  dared  touch  it  without  my  leave. 
They  answered,  civilly  enough  I  must  own,  that 
they  were  acting  under  my  husband's  orders ; 
and  they  went  on  removing  it,  before  my  own 
eyes,  to  the  cart  outside.  I  ran  up  stairs,  and 
found  my  husband  on  the  landing.  He  was  in 
liquor  again.  It  is  useless  to  say  what  passed 
between  us.  I  shall  only  mention  that  this  was 
the  first  occasion  on  which  he  lifted  his  fist,  and 
struck  me. 

5. 

"Having  a  spirit  of  my  own,  I  was  resolved 
not  to  endure  it.  I  ran  out  to  the  Police  Court, 
hard  by. 

"My  money  had  not  only  bought  the  furniture 
— it  had  kept  the  house  going  as  well ;  paying 
the  taxes  which  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament 
asked  for  among  other  things.  I  now  went  to 
the  magistrate  to  see  what  the  Queen  and  the 
Parliament,  in  return  for  the  taxes,  would  do 
for  me. 

"'Is  your  furniture  settled  on  yourself?'  he 
says,  when  I  told  him  what  had  happened. 

"I  didn't  understand  what  he  meant.  He 
turned  to  some  person  who  was  sitting  on  the 
bench  with  him.  '  This  is  a  hard  case,'  he  says. 
'  Poor  people  in  this  condition  of  life  don't  even 
know  what  a  marriage  settlement  means.  And, 
if  they  did,  how  many  of  them  could  afford  to 
pay  the  lawyer's  charges  ?'  Upon  that  he  turn- 
ed to  me.  'Yours  is  a  common  case,'  he  said. 
'  In  the  present  state  of  the  law  I  can  do  nothing 
for  you.' 

' '  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that.  Common 
or  not,  I  put  my  case  to  him  over  again. 

"  '  I  have  bought  the  furniture  with  my  own 
money,  Sir,'  I  says.  'It's  mine,  honestly  come 
by,  with  bill  and  receipt  to  prove  it.  They  are 
taking  it  away  from  me  by  force,  to  sell  it  against 
my  will.  Don't  tell  me  that's  the  law.  This  is 
a  Christian  country.  It  can't  be.' 

'"My  good  creature,'  says  he,  'you  are  a 
married  woman.  The  law  doesn't  allow  a  mar- 
ried woman  to  call  any  thing  her  own — unless 
she  has  previously  (with  a  lawyer's  help)  made 
a  bargain  to  that  effect  with  her  husband  before 
marrying  him.  You  have  made  no  bargain. 
Your  husband  has  a  right  to  sell  your  furniture 
if  he  likes.  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  I  can't  hinder 
him.' 

"I  was  obstinate  about  it.  'Please  to  an- 
swer me  this,  Sir, '  I  says.  '  I've  been  told  by 
wiser  heads  than  mine  that  we  all  pay  our  taxes 
to  keep  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  going ; 
and  that  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  make 
laws  to  protect  us  in  return.  I  have  paid  my 
taxes.  Why,  if  you  please,  is  there  no  law  to 
protect  me  iu  return  ?' 

'"I  can't  enter  into  that,'  says  he.  ' I  must 
take  the  law  as  I  find  it ;  and  so  must  you.  I 
see  a  mark  there  on  the  side  of  your  face.  Has 
your  husband  been  beating  you  ?  If  he  has, 
summon  him  here.  I  can  punish  him  for  that.' 

"  'How  can  you  punish  him,  Sir?'  says  I. 

"  '  I  can  fine  him,'  says  he.  '  Or  I  can  send 
him  to  prison.' 

"'As  to  the  fine,'  says  I,  'he  can  pay  that 
out  of  the  money  he  gets  by  selling  my  furniture. 
As  to  the  prison,  while  he's  in  it,  what's  to  be- 
come of  me,  with  my  money  spent  by  him,  and 
my  possessions  gone ;  and  when  he's  out  of  it, 
what's  to  become  of  me  again,  with  a  husband 


whom  I  have  been  the  means  of  punishing,  and 
who  comes  home  to  his  wife  knowing  it?  It's 
bad  enough  as  it  is,  Sir,'  says  I.  ' There's  more 
that's  bruised  in  me  than  what  shows  in  my  face. 
I  wish  you  good-morning.' 
G. 

"When  I  got  back  the  furniture  was  gor.u, 
and  my  husband  was  gone.  There  was  nobody 
but  the  landlord  in  the  empty  house.  He  said 
all  that  could  be  said — kindly  enough  toward 
me,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  When  he  was 
gone  I  locked  my  trunk,  and  got  away  in  a  cab 
after  dark,  and  found  a  lodging  to  lay  my  head 
in.  If  ever  there  was  a  lonely,  broken-hearted 
creature  in  the  world,  I  was  that  creature  that 
night. 

"There  was  but  one  chance  of  earning  my 
bread — to  go  to  the  employment  offered  me  (un- 
der a  man  cook,  at  a  club).  And  there  was  but 
one  hope — the  hope  that  I  had  lost  sight  of  my 
husband  forever. 

"I  went  to  my  work — and  prospered  in  it — 
and  earned  my  first  quarter's  wages.  But  it's 
not  good  for  a  woman  to  be  situated  as  I  was ; 
friendless  and  alone,  with  her  things  that  she 
took  a  pride  in  sold  away  from  her,  and  with  no- 
thing to  look  forward  to  in  her  life  to  come.  I 
was  regular  in  my  attendance  at  chapel ;  but  I 
think  my  heart  began  to  get  hardened,  and  my 
mind  to  be  overcast  in  secret  with  its  own 
thoughts  about  this  time.  There  was  a  change 
coming.  Two  or  three  days  after  I  had  earned 
the  wages  just  mentioned  my  husband  found  me 
out.  The  furniture-money  was  all  spent.  He 
made  a  disturbance  at  the  club.  I  was  only 
able  to  quiet  him  by  giving  him  all  the  money 
I  could  spare  from  my  own  necessities.  The 
scandal  was  brought  before  the  committee.  They 
said,  if  the  circumstance  occurred  again,  they 
should  be  obliged  to  part  with  me.  In  a  fort- 
night the  circumstance  occurred  again.  It's  use- 
less to  dwell  on  it.  They  all  said  they  were  sorry 
for  me.  I  lost  the  place.  My  husband  went  back 
with  me  to  my  lodgings.  The  next  morning  I 
caught  him  taking  my  purse,  with  the  few  shil- 
lings I  had  in  it,  out  of  my  trunk,  which  he  had 
broken  open.  We  quarreled.  And  he  struck 
me  again — this  time  knocking  me  down. 

"  I  went  once  more  to  the  police  court,  and 
told  my  story — to  another  magistrate  this  time. 
My  only  petition  was  to  have  my  husband  kept 
away  from  me.  '  I  don't  want  to  be  a  burden 
on  others'  (I  says);  'I  don't  want  to  do  any 
thing  but  what's  right.  I  don't  even  complain 
of  having  been  very  cruelly  used.  All  I  ask  is 
to  be  let  to  earn  an  honest  living.  Will  the  law 
protect  me  in  the  effort  to  do  that  ?' 

"The  answer,  in  substance,  was  that  the  law 
might  protect  me,  provided  I  had  money  to 
spend  in  asking  some  higher  court  to  grant  me  a 
separation.  After  allowing  my  husband  to  rob 
me  openly  of  the  only  property  I  possessed — 
namely,  my  furniture — the  law  turned  round  on 
me  when  I  called  upon  it  in  my  distress,  and 
held  out  its  hand  to  be  paid.  I  had  just  three 
and  sixpence  left  in  the  world — and  the  prospect, 
if  I  earned  more,  of  my  husband  coming  (with 
permission  of  the  law)  and  taking  it  away  from 
me.  There  was  only  one  chance — namely,  to 
get  time  to  turn  round  in,  and  to  escape  him 
again.  I  got  a  month's  freedom  from  him.  by 
charging  him  with  knocking  me  down.  The 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


221 


magistrate  (happening  to  be  young,  and  new  to 
his  business)  sent  him  to  prison,  instead  of  fin- 
ing him.  This  gave  me  time  to  get  a  character 
from  the  club,  as  well  as  a  special  testimonial 
from  good  Mr.  Bapchild.  With  the  help  of 
these,  I  obtained  a  place  in  a  private  family — a 
place  in  the  country,  this  time. 

"I  found  myself  now  in  a  haven  of  peace.  1 
was  among  worthy  kind-hearted  people,  who  felt 
for  my  distresses,  and  treated  me  most  indul- 
gently. Indeed,  through  all  my  troubles,  I  must 
say  I  have  found  one  thing  hold  good.  In  my 
experience,  I  have  observed  that  people  are  oft- 
ener  quick  than  not  to  feel  a  human  compassion 
for  others  in  distress.  Also,  that  they  mostly 
see  plain  enough  what's  hard  and  cruel  and  un- 
fair on  them  in  the  governing  of  the  country 
which  they  help  to  keep  going.  But  once  ask 
them  to  get  on  from  sitting  down  and  grumbling 
about  it,  to  rising  up  and  setting  it  right,  and 
what  do  you  find  them  ?  As  helpless  as  a  flock 
of  sheep — that's  what  you  find  them. 

"More  than  six  months  passed,  and  I  saved 
a  little  money  again. 

"One  night,  just  as  we  were  going  to  bed, 
there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell.  The  footman 
answered  the  door — and  I  heard  my  husband's 
voice  in  the  hall.  He  had  traced  me,  with  the 
help  of  a  man  he  knew  in  the  police ;  and  he  had 
come  to  claim  his  rights.  I  offered  him  all  the 
little  money  I  had,  to  let  me  be.  My  good  mas- 
ter spoke  to  him.  It  was  all  useless.  He  was 
obstinate  and  savage.  If — instead  of  my  run- 
ning off  from  him — it  had  been  all  the  other  way, 
and  he  had  run  off  from  me,  something  might 
have  been  done  (as  I  understood)  to  protect  me. 
But  he  stuck  to  his  wife.  As  long  as  I  could 
make  a  farthing,  he  stuck  to  his  wife.  Being 
married  to  him,  I  had  no  right  to  have  left  him ; 
I  was  bound  to  go  with  my  husband ;  there  was 
no  escape  for  me.  I  bade  them  good-by.  And 
I  have  never  forgotten  their  kindness  to  me  from 
that  day  to  this. 

"  My  husband  took  me  back  to  London. 

"As  long  as  the  money  lasted,  the  drinking 
went  on.  When  it  was  gone,  I  was  beaten  again. 
Where  was  the  remedy  ?  There  was  no  remedy, 
but  to  try  and  escape  him  once  more.  Why 
didn't  I  have  him  locked  up?  What  was  the 
the  good  of  having  him  locked  up  ?  In  a  few 
weeks  he  would  be  out  of  prison;  sober  and 
penitent,  and  promising  amendment — and  then 
when  the  fit  took  him,  there  he  would  be,  the 
same  furious  savage  that  he  had  been  often  and 
often  before.  My  heart  got  hard  under  the  hope- 
lessness of  it ;  and  dark  thoughts  beset  me, 
mostly  at  night.  About  this  time  I  began  to 
P:IV  to  myself,  '  There's  no  deliverance  from  this, 
but  in  death — his  death  or  mine.' 

"Once  or  twice  I  went  down  to  the  bridges 
after  dark,  and  looked  over  at  the  river.  No. 
I  wasn't  the  sort  of  woman  who  ends  her  own 
wretchedness  in  that  way.  Your  blood  must  be 
in  a  fever,  and  your  head  in  a  flame — at  least  I 
fancy  so — you  must  be  hurried  into  it,  like,  to  go 
and  make  away  with  yourself.  My  troubles  never 
took  that  effect  on  me.  I  always  turned  cold  un- 
der them,  instead  of  hot.  Bad  for  me,  I  dare  say ; 
but  what  you  are — you  are.  Can  the  Ethiopian 
change  his  skin,  or  the  leopard  his  spots  ? 

"I  got  away  from  him  once  more,  and  found 
good  employment  once  more.  It  don't  matter 


how ;  and  it  don't  matter  where.  My  story  is 
always  the  same  thing,  over  and  over  again. 
Best  get  to  the  end. 

"  There  was  one  change,  however,  this  time. 
My  employment  was  not  in  a  private  familv.  I 
was  also  allowed  to  teach  cookery  to  young  wo- 
men, in  my  leisure  hours.  What  with  this,  and 
what  with  a  longer  time  passing  on  the  present 
occasion  before  my  husband  found  me  out,  I 
was  as  comfortably  off  as  in  my  position  I  could 
hope  to  be.  When  my  work  was  done,  I  went 
away  at  night  to  sleep  in  a  lodging  of  my  own. 
It  was  only  a  bedroom  ;  and  I  furnished  it  my- 
self— partly  for  the  sake  of  economy  (the  rent 
being  not  half  as  much  as  for  a  furnished  room) ; 
and  partly  for  the  sake  of  cleanliness.  Through 
all  my  troubles  I  always  liked  things  neat  about 
me — neat  and  shapely  and  good. 

"Well,  it's  needless  to  say  how  it  ended.  He 
found  me  out  again — this  time  by  a  chance- 
meeting  with  me  in  the  street. 

' '  He  was  in  rags,  and  half  starved.  But  that 
didn't  matter  now.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  put 
his  hand  into  my  pocket  and  take  what  he  want- 
ed. There  is  no  limit,  in  England,  to  what  a 
bad  husband  may  do — as  long  as  he  sticks  to  his 
wife.  On  the  present  occasion,  he  was  cunning 
enough  to  see  that  he  would  be  the  loser  if  he 
disturbed  me  in  my  employment.  For  a  while 
things  went  on  as  smoothly  as  they  could.  I 
made  a  pretense  that  the  work  was  harder  than 
usual;  and  I  got  leave  (loathing  the  sight  of 
him,  I  honestly  own )  to  sleep  at  the  place  where 
I  was  employed.  This  was  not  for  long.  The 
fit  took  him  again,  in  due  course  ;  and  he  came 
and  made  a  disturbance.  As  before,  this  was 
not  to  be  borne  by  decent  people.  As  before, 
they  were  sorry  to  part  with  me.  As  before,  I 
lost  my  place. 

"Another  woman  would  have  gone  mad  un- 
der it.  I  fancy  it  just  missed,  by  a  hair's  breadth, 
maddening  Me. 

"  When  I  looked  at  him  that  night,  deep  in 
his  drunken  sleep,  I  thought  of  Jael  and  Sisera 
(see  the  book  of  Judges  ;  chapter  4th  ;  verses  1 7 
to  21).  It  says,  she  '  took  a  nail  of  the  tent,  and 
took  a  hammer  in  her  hand,  and  went  softly  unto 
him,  and  smote  the  nail  into  his  temples,  and  fas- 
tened it  into  the  ground :  for  he  was  fast  asleep 
and  weary.  So  he  died.'  She  did  this  deed  to  de- 
liver her  nation  from  Sisera.  If  there  had  been 
a  hammer  and  a  nail  in  the  room  that  night,  I 
think  I  should  have  been  Jael — with  this  differ- 
ence, that  I  should  have  done  it  to  deliver  mv- 
self. 

"With  the  morning  this  passed  off,  for  the 
time.  I  went  and  spoke  to  a  lawyer. 

"Most  people,  in  my  place,  would  have  had 
enough  of  the  law  already.  But  I  was  one  of 
the  sort  who  drain  the  cup  to  the  flregs.  What 
I  said  to  him  was,  in  substance,  this.  '  I  come 
to  ask  your  advice  about  a  madman.  Mad  peo- 
ple, as  I  understand  it,  are  people  who  have  lost 
control  over  their  own  minds.  Sometimes  this 
leads  them  to  entertaining  delusions ;  and  some- 
times it  leads  them  to  committing  actions  hurtful 
to  others  or  to  themselves.  My  husband  has 
lost  all  control  over  his  own  craving  for  strong 
drink.  He  requires  to  be  kept  from  liquor,  as 
other  madmen  require  to  be  kept  from  attempt- 
ing their  own  lives,  or  the  lives  of  those  about 
them.  It's  a  frenzy  beyond  his  own  control, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


with  him — just  as  it's  a  frenzy  beyond  their  own 
control,  with  them.  There  are  Asylums  for  mad 
people,  all  over  the  country,  at  the  public  dispos- 
al, on  certain  conditions.  If  I  fulfill  those  con- 
ditions, will  the  law  deliver  me  from  the  misery 
of  being  married  to  a  madman,  whose  madness 
is  drink?' — 'No,'  says  the  lawyer.  'The  law 
of  England  declines  to  consider  an  incurable 
drunkard  as  a  fit  object  for  restraint ;  the  law  of 
England  leaves  the  husbands  and  wives  of  such 
people  in  a  perfectly  helpless  situation,  to  deal 
with  their  own  misery  as  they  best  can.' 

' '  I  made  my  acknowledgments  to  the  gentle- 
man and  left  him.     The  last  chance  was  this 
chance — and  this  had  failed  me. 
8. 

"The  thought  that  had  once  found  its  way 
into  my  mind  already,  now  found  its  way  back 
again ;  and  never  altogether  left  me  from  that 
time  forth.  No  deliverance  for  me  but  in  death 
— his  death,  or  mine. 

.  "I  had  it  before  me  night  and  day  ;  in  chap- 
el and  out  of  chapel  just  the  same.  I  read  the 
story  of  Jael  and  Sisera  so  often  that  the  Bible 
got  to  open  of  itself  at  that  place. 

"The  laws  of  my  country,  which  ought  to 
have  protected  me  as  an  honest  woman,  left  me 
helpless.  In  place  of  the  laws  I  had  no  friend 
near  to  open  my  heart  to.  I  was  shut  up  in  my- 
self. And  I  was  married  to  that  man.  Con- 
sider me  as  a  human  creature,  and  say,  Was 
this  not  trying  my  humanity  very  hardly  ? 

"  I  wrote  to  good  Mr.  Bapchild.  Not  going 
into  particulars ;  only  telling  him  I  was  beset  by 
temptation,  and  begging  him  to  come  and  help 
me.  He  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  illness  ;  he 
could  only  write  me  a  letter  of  good  advice.  To 
profit  by  good  advice  people  must  have  a  glimpse 
of  happiness  to  look  forward  to  as  a  reward  for 
exerting  themselves.  Religion  itself  is  obliged  to 
hold  out  a  reward,  and  to  say  to  us  poor  mortals, 
Be  good,  and  you  shall  go  to  Heaven.  I  had  no 
glimpse  of  happiness.  I  was  thankful  (in  a  dull 
sort  of  way)  to  good  Mr.  Bapchild — and  there 
it  ended. 

' '  The  time  had  been  when  a  word  from  my 
old  pastor  would  have  put  me  in  the  right  way 
again.  I  began  to  feel  scared  by  myself.  If  the 
next  ill  usage  I  received  from  Joel  Dethridge 
found  me  an  unchanged  woman,  it  was  borne  in 
strongly  on  my  mind  that  I  should  be  as  likely 
as  not  to  get  my  deliverance  from  him  by  my 
own  hand. 

"  Goaded  to  it,  by  the  fear  of  this,  I  humbled 
myself  before  my  relations  for  the  first  time.  I 
wrote  to  beg  their  pardon  ;  to  own  that  they  had 
proved  to  be  right  in  their  opinion  of  my  hus- 
band ;  and  to  entreat  them  to  be  friends  with  me 
again,  so  far  as  to  let  me  visit  them  from  time  to 
time.  My  notion  was,  that  it  might  soften  my 
heart  if  I  could  see  the  old  place,  and  talk  the 
old  talk,  and  look  again  at  the  well-remembered 
faces.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  own  it — but,  if 
'  I  had  had  any  thing  to  give,  I  would  have  part- 
ed with  it  all,  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  into  mo- 
ther's kitchen  and  cook  the  Sunday  dinner  for 
them  once  more. 

"But  this  was  not  to  be.  Not  long  before 
my  letter  was  received  mother  had  died.  They 
laid  it  all  at  my  door.  She  had  been  ailing  for 
years  past,  and  the  doctors  had  said  it  was  hope- 
less from  the  first — but  they  laid  it  all  at  my 


door.  One  of  my  sisters  wrote  to  say  that  much, 
in  as  few  words  as  could  possibly  suffice  for  say- 
ing it.  My  father  never  answered  mv  letter  at 
all. 

9. 

"  Magistrates  and  lawyers ;  relations  and 
friends ;  endurance  of  injuries,  patience,  hope, 
and  honest  work — I  had  tried  all  these,  and  tried 
them  vainly.  Look  round  me  where  I  might, 
the  prospect  was  closed  on  all  sides. 

"At  this  time  my  husband  had  got  a  little 
work  to  do.  He  came  home  out  of  temper  one 
night,  and  I  gave  him  a  warning.  'Don't  try 
me  too  far,  Joel,  for  your  own  sake,'  was  all  I 
said.  It  was  one  of  his  sober  days  ;  and,  for  the 
first  time,  a  word  from  me  seemed  to  have  an  ef- 
fect on  him.  He  looked  hard  at  me  for  a  minute 
or  so.  And  then  he  went  and  sat  down  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  held  his  peace. 

"This  was  on  a  Tuesday  in  the  week.  On 
the  Saturday  he  got  paid,  and  the  drinking  fit 
took  him  again. 

"  On  Friday  in  the  next  week  1  happened  to 
come  back  late — having  had  a  good  stroke  of 
work  to  do  that  day,  in  the  way  of  cooking  a 
public  dinner  for  a  tavern-keeper  who  knew  me. 
I  found  my  husband  gone,  and  the  bedroom 
stripped  of  the  furniture  which  I  had  put  into  it. 
For  the  second  time  he  had  robbed  me  of  my 
own  property,  and  had  turned  it  into  money  to 
be  spent  in  drink. 

"I  didn't  say  a  Avord.  I  stood  and  looked 
round  the  empty  room.  What  was  going  on  in 
me  I  hardly  knew  myself  at  the  time,  and  can't 
describe  now.  All  I  remember  is,  that,  after 
a  little,  I  turned  about  to  leave  the  house.  I 
knew  the  places  where  my  husband  was  likely 
to  be  found ;  and  the  devil  possessed  me  to  go 
and  find  him.  The  landlady  came  out  into  the 
passage  and  tried  to  stop'  me.  She  was  a  bigger 
and  a  stronger  woman  than  I  was.  But  I  shook 
her  off  like  a  child.  Thinking  over  it  now,  I 
believe  she  was  in  no  condition  to  put  out  her 
strength.  The  sight  of  me  frightened  her. 

"I  found  him.  I  said — well,  I  said  what  a 
woman  beside  herself  with  fury  would  be  likely 
to  say.  It's  needless  to  tell  how  it  ended.  He 
knocked  me  down. 

"After  that,  there  is  a  spot  of  darkness  like 
in  my  memory.  The  next  thing  I  can  call  to 
mind,  is  coming  back  to  my  senses  after  some 
days.  Three  of  my  teeth  were  knocked  out — 
but  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  My  head 
had  struck  against  something  in  falling,  and 
some  part  of  me  (a  nerve,  I  think  they  said)  was 
injured  in  such  a  way  as  to  affect  my  speech.  I 
don't  mean  that  I  was  downright  dumb — I  only 
mean  that,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  had  become  a  labor 
to  me  to  speak.  A  long  word  was  as  serious  an 
obstacle  as  if  I  was  a  child  again.  They  took 
me  to  the  hospital.  When  the  medical  gentle- 
men heard  what  it  was,  the  medical  gentlemen 
came  crowding  round  me.  I  appeared  to  lay 
hold  of  their  interest,  just  as  a  story-book  lays 
hold  of  the  interest  of  other  people.  The  upshot 
of  it  was,  that  I  might  end  in  being  dumb,  or  I 
might  get  my  speech  again — the  chances  were 
about  equal.  Only  two  things  were  needful. 
One  of  them  was  that  I  should  live  on  good 
nourishing  diet.  The  other  was,  thaf  I  should 
keep  my  mind  easy. 

11  About  the  diet  it  was  not  possible  to  decide. 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


223 


My  getting  good  nourishing  food  and  drink  de- 
pended on  my  getting  money  to  buy  the  same. 
As  to  my  mind,  there  was  no  difficulty  about 
that.  If  my  husband  came  back  to  me,  my 
mind  was  made  up  to  kill  him. 

"  Horrid— I  nm  well  aware  this  is  horrid.  No- 
body else,  in  my  place,  would  have  ended  as  wick- 
edly as  that.  All  the  other  women  in  the  world, 
tried  as  I  w;:s,  would  have  risen  superior  to  the 
trial. 

10. 

' '  I  have  said  that  people  (excepting  my  hus- 
band and  my  relations)  were  almost  always  good 
to  me. 

"The  landlord  of  the  house  which  we  had 
taken  when  we  were  married  heard  of  my  sad 
case.  He  gave  me  one  of  his  empty  houses  to 
look  after,  and  a  little  weekly  allowance  for  do- 
ing it.  i-'ome  of  the  furniture  in  the  upper  rooms, 
not  being  wanted  by  the  last  tenant,  was  left  to 
be  taken  at  a  valuation  if  the  next  tenant  needed 
it.  Two  of  the  servants'  bedrooms  (in  the  at- 
tics), one  next  to  the  other,  had  all  that  was 
wanted  in  them.  So  I  had  a  roof  to  cover  me, 
and  a  choice  of  beds  to  lie  on,  and  money  to  get 
me  food.  All  well  again — but  all  too  late.  If 
that  house  could  speak,  what  tales  that  house 
would  have  to  tell  of  me ! 

"  I  had  been  told  by  the  doctors  to  exercise 
my  speech.  Being  all  alone,  with  nobody  to 
speak  to,  except  when  the  landlord  dropped  in, 
or  when  the  sen-ant  next  door  said,  '  Nice  day, 
ain't  it?'  or,  'Don't  you  feel  lonely?'  or  such 
like,  I  bought  the  newspaper,  and  read  it  out 
loud  to  myself  to  exercise  my  speech  in  that 
way.  One  day  I  came  upon -a  bit  about  the 
wives  of  drunken  husbands.  It  was  a  report  of 
something  said  on  that  subject  by  a  London  cor- 
oner, who  had  held  inquests  on  dead  husbands 
(in  the  lower  ranks  of  life),  and  who  had  his 
reasons  for  suspecting  the  wives.  Examination 
of  the  body  (he  said)  didn't  prove  it ;  and  wit- 
nesses didn't  prove  it ;  but  he  thought  it,  never- 
theless, quite  possible,  in  some  cases,  that,  when 
the  woman  could  bear  it  no  longer,  she  some- 
times took  a  damp  towel,  and  waited  till  the  hus- 
band (drugged  with  his  own  liquor)  was  sunk  in 
his  sleep,  and  then  put  the  towel  over  his  nose 
and  mouth,  and  ended  it  that  way  without  any 
body  being  the  wiser.  I  laid  down  the  newspa- 
per, and  fell  into  thinking.  My  mind  was,  by 
this  time,  in  a  prophetic  way.  I  said  to  myself 
'  I  haven't  happened  on  this  for  nothing :  this 
means  that  I  shall  see  my  husband  again. ' 

"  It  was  then  just  after  my  dinner-time — two 
o'clock.  That  same  night,  at  the  moment  when 
I  had  put  out  my  candle,  and  laid  me  down  in 
bed,  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  street  door.  Before 
I  had  lit  my  candle  I  says  to  myself,  ' Here  he  is.' 
' '  I  huddled  on  a  few  things,  and  struck  a 
light,  and  went  down  stairs.  I  called  out 
through  the  door,  'Who's  there?'  And  his 
voice  answered,  'Let  me  in.' 

"I  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  passage,  and 
shook  all  over  like  a  person  struck  with  palsy. 
Not  from  the  fear  of  him — but  from  my  mind 
being  in  the  prophetic  way.  I  knew  I  was  go- 
ing to  be  driven  to  it  at  last.  Try  as  I  might 
to  keep  from  doing  it,  my  mind  told  me  I  was  to 
do  it  now.  I  sat  shaking  on  the  chair  in  the 
passage ;  I  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  he  on 
the  other. 


"  He  knocked  again,  and  again,  and  again.  I 
knew  it  was  useless  to  try — and  yet  I  resolved  to 
try.  I  determined  not  to  let  him  in  till  I  was 
forced  to  it.  I  determined  to  let  him  alarm  the 
neighborhood,  and  to  see  if  the  neighborhood 
would  step  between  us.  I  went  up  stairs  and 
waited  at  the  open  staircase  window  over  the  door. 

"The  policeman  came  up,  and  the  neighbors 
came  out.  They  were  all  for  giving  him  into 
custody.  The  policeman  laid  hands  on  him. 
He  had  but  one  word  to  say ;  he  had  only  to 
point  up  to  me  at  the  window,  and  to  tell  them 
I  was  his  wife.  The  neighbors  went  indoors 
again.  The  policeman  dropped  hold  of  his  arm. 
It  was  I  who  was  in  the  wrong,  and  not  he.  I 
was  bound  to  let  my  husband  in.  I  went  down 
stairs  again,  and  let  him  in. 

"  Nothing  passed  between  us  that  night.  I 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  bedroom  next  to 
mine,  and  went  and  locked  myself  into  my  own 
room.  He  was  dead  beat  with  roaming  the 
streets,  without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  all  day 
long.  The  bed  to  lie  on  was  all  he  wanted  for 
that  night. 

"  The  next  morning  I  tried  again — tried  to  turn 
back  on  the  way  that  I  was  doomed  to  go ;  know- 
ing beforehand  that  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  of- 
fered him  three  parts  of  my  poor  weekly  earn- 
ings, to  be  paid  to  him  regularly  at  the  landlord's 
office,  if  he  would  only  keep  away  from  me,  and 
from  the  house.  He  laughed  in  my  face.  As 
my  husband,  he  could  take  all  my  earnings  if  he 
chose.  And  as  for  leaving  the  house,  the  house 
offered  him  free  quarters  to  live  in  as  long  as  I 
was  employed  to  look  after  it.  The  landlord 
couldn't  part  man  and  wife. 

",I  said  no  more.  Later  in  the  day  the  land- 
lord came.  He  said  if  we  could  make  it  out  to 
live  together  peaceably  he  had  neither  the  right 
nor  the  wish  to  interfere.  If  we  made  any  dis- 
turbances, then  he  should  be  obliged  to  provide 
himself  with  some  other  woman  to  look  after  the 
house.  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go,  and  no  other 
employment  to  undertake.  If,  in  spite  of  that,  1 
had  put  on  my  bonnet  and  walked  out,  my  hus- 
band would  have  walked  out  after  me.  And  all 
decent  people  would  have  patted  him  on  the  back, 
and  said,  'Quite  right,  good  man — quite  right.' 

"  So  there  he  was  by  his  own  act,  and  with  the 
approval  of  others,  in  the  same  house  with  me. 

"  I  made  no  remark  to  him  or  to  the  landlord. 
Nothing  roused  me  now.  I  knew  what  was  com- 
ing; I  waited  for  the  end.  There  was  some 
change  visible  in  me  to  others,  as  I  suppose, 
though  not  noticeable  by  myself,  which  first  sur- 
prised my  husband  and  then  daunted  him.  When 
the  next  night  came  I  heard  him  lock  t'.e  door 
softly  in  his  own  room.  It  didn't  matter  to  j;ie. 
When  the  time  was  ripe  ten  thousand  locks 
wouldn't  lock  out  what  was  to  come. 

"  The  next  day,  bringing  my  weekly  payment, 
brought  me  a  step  nearer  on  the  way  to  the  end. 
Getting  the  money,  he  could  get  the  drink.  This 
time  he  began  cunningly — in  other  words,  he  be- 
gan his  drinking  by  slow  degrees.  The  landlord 
(bent,  honest  man,  on  trying  to  keep  the  peace 
between  us)  had  given  him  some  odd  jobs  to  do, 
in  the  way  of  small  repairs,  here  and  there  about 
the  house.  '  You  owe  this,'  he  says,  '  to  my  de- 
sire to  do  a  good  turn  to  your  poor  wife.  I  am 
helping  you  for  her  sake.  Show  yourself  worthy 
to  be  helped,  if  you  can.' 


224 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  He  said,  as  usual,  that  he  was  going  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf.  Too  late !  The  time  had  gone 
by.  He  was  doomed,  and  I  was  doomed.  It 
didn't  matter  what  he  said  now.  It  didn't  mat- 
ter when  he  locked  his  door  again  the  last  thing 
at  night. 

"The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. I  went  to  chapel.  Mere  habit.  It  did 
me  no  good.  He  got  on  a  little  with  the  drink- 
ing—  but  still  cunningly,  by  slow  degrees.  I 
knew  by  experience  that  this  meant  a  long  fit, 
and  a  bad  one,  to  come. 

"  Monday,  there  were  the  odd  jobs  about  the 
house  to  be  begun.  He  was  by  this  time  just 
sober  enough  to  do  his  work,  and  just  tipsy 
enough  to  take  a  spiteful  pleasure  in  persecuting 
his  wife.  He  went  out  and  got  the  things  he 
wanted,  and  came  back  and  called  for  me.  A 
skilled  workman  like  he  was  (he  said)  wanted 
a  journeyman  under  him.  There  were  things 
which  it  was  beneath  a  skilled  workman  to  do 
for  himself.  He  was  not  going  to  call  in  a  man 
or  a  boy,  and  then  have  to  pay  them.  He  was 
going  to  get  it  done  for  nothing,  and  he  meant 
to  make  a  journeyman  of  me.  Half  tipsy  and 
half  sober,  he  went  on  talking  like  that,  and  lay- 
ing out  his  things,  all  quite  right,  as  he  wanted 
them.  When  they  were  ready  he  straightened 
himself  up,  and  he  gave  me  his  orders  what  I 
was  to  do. 

"I  obeyed  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  What- 
ever he  said,  and  whatever  he  did,  I  knew  he  was 
going  as  straight  as  man  could  go  to  his  own 
death  by  my  hands. 

"The  rats  and  mice  were  all  over  the  house, 
and  the  place  generally  was  out  of  repair.  He 
ought  to  have  begun  on  the  kitchen-floor ;  but 
(having  sentence  pronounced  against  him)  he  be- 
gan in  the  empty  parlors  on  the  ground-floor. 

"These  parlors  were  separated  by  what  is 
called  a  ' lath-and-plaster  wall.'  The  rats  had 
damaged  it.  At  one  part  they  had  gnawed 
through  and  spoiled  the  paper ;  at  another  part 
they  had  not  got  so  far.  The  landlord's  orders 
were  to  spare  the  paper,  because  he  had  some  by 
him  to  match  it.  My  husband  began  at  a 
place  where  the  paper  was  whole.  Under  his 
directions  I  mixed  up — I  won't  say  what.  With 
the  help  of  it  he  got  the  paper  loose  from  the 
wall,  without  injuring  it  in  any  way,  in  a  long, 
hanging  strip.  Under  it  was  the  plaster  and  the 
laths,  gnawed  away  in  places  by  the  rats.  Though 
strictly  a  paper-hanger  by  trade,  he  could  be 
plasterer  too  when  he  liked.  I  saw  how  he  cut 
away  the  rotten  laths  and  ripped  off  the  plaster; 
and  (under  his  directions  again)  I  mixed  up  the 
new  plaster  he  wanted,  and  handed  him  the  new 
laths,  and  saw  how  he  set  them.  I  won't  say  a 
word  about  how  this  was  done  either. 

"I  have  a  reason  for  keeping  silence  here, 
which  is,  to  my  mind,  a  very  dreadful  one.  In 
every  thing  that  my  husband  made  me  do  that 
day  he  was  showing  me  (blindfold)  the  way  to 
kill  him,  so  that  no  living  soul,  in  the  police  or 
out  of  it,  could  suspect  me  of  the  deed. 

"We  finished  the  job  on  the  wall  just  before 
dark.  I  went  to  my  cup  of  tea,  and  he  went  to 
his  bottle  of  gin. 

"I  left  him,  drinking  hard,  to  put  our  two 
bedrooms  tidy  for  the  night.  The  place  that 
his  bed  happened  to  be  set  in  (which  I  had  never 
remarked  particularly  before)  seemed,  in  a  man- 


ner of  speaking,  to  force  itself  on  my  notice 
now. 

"The  head  of  the  bedstead  was  set  against 
the  wall  which  divided  his  room  from  mine. 
From  looking  at  the  bedstead  I  got  to  looking 
at  the  wall  next.  Then  to  wondering  what  it 
was  made  of.  Then  to  rapping  against  it  with 
my  knuckles.  The  sound  told  me  there  was 
nothing  but  lath  and  plaster  under  the  paper. 
It  was  the  same  as  the  wall  we  had  been  at  work 
on  down  stairs.  We  had  cleared  our  way  so  fur 
through  this  last — in  certain  places  where  the  re- 
pairs were  most  needed — that  we  had  to  be  care- 
ful not  to  burst  through  the  paper  in  the  room  on 
the  other  side.  I  found  myself  calling  to  mind 
the  caution  my  husband  had  given  me  while  we 
were  at  this  part  of  the  work,  word  for  word  as 
he  had  spoken  it.  '  Take  care  you  dorit  find 
your  hands  in  the,  next  room.'  That  was  what  he 
had  said  down  in  the  parlor.  Up  in  his  bedroom 
I  kept  on  repeating  it  in  my  own  mind — with  my 
eyes  all  the  while  on  the  key,  which  he  had  moved 
to  the  inner  side  of  the  door  to  lock  himself  in — 
till  the  knowledge  of  what  it  meant  burst  on  me 
like  a  flash  of  light.  I  looked  at  the  wall,  at  the 
bedhead,  at  my  own  two  hands — and  I  shivered 
as  if  it  was  winter  time. 

"  Hours  must  have  passed  like  minutes  while 
I  was  up  stairs  that  night.     I  lost  all  count  of 
time.      When  my  husband  came  up  from  his 
drinking,  he  found  me  in  his  room. 
12. 

"  I  leave  the  rest  untold,  and  pass  on  pmpose- 
ly  to  the  next  morning. 

"  No  mortal  eyes  but  mine  will  ever  see  these 
lines.  Still,  there  are  things  a  woman  can't 
write  of  even  to  herself.  I  shall  only  say  this. 
I  suffered  the  last  and  worst  of  many  indignities 
at  my  husband's  hands — at  the  very  time  when  I 
first  saw,  set  plainly  before  me,  the  way.  to  take 
his  life.  He  went  out  toward  noon  next  day,  to 
go  his  rounds  among  the  public  houses;  my 
mind  being  then  strung  up  to  deliver  myself  from 
him,  for  good  and  all,  when  he  came  back  at 
night. 

' '  The  things  we  had  used  on  the  previous  day 
were  left  in  the  parlor.  I  was  all  by  myself  in 
the  house,  free  to  put  in  practice  the  lesson  he 
had  taught  me.  I  proved  myself  an  apt  scholar. 
Before  the  lamps  were  lit  in  the  street  I  had  my 
own  way  prepared  (in  my  bedroom  and  in  his) 
for  laying  my  own  hands  on  him — after  he  had 
locked  himself  up  for  the  night. 

"I  don't  remember  feeling  either  fear  or  doubt 
through  all  those  hours.  I  sat  down  to  my  bit 
of  supper  with  no  better  and  no  worse  an  appe- 
tite than  usual.  The  only  change  in  me  that  I 
can  call  to  mind  was  that  I  felt  a  singular  long- 
ing to  have  somebody  with  me  to  keep  me  com- 
pany. Having  no  friend  to  ask  in,  I  went  to  the 
street  door  and  stood  looking  at  the  people  pass- 
ing this  way  and  that. 

"A  stray  dog,  sniffing  about,  came  up  to  me. 
Generally  I  dislike  dogs  and  beasts  of  all  kinds. 
I  called  this  one  in  and  gave  him  his  supper. 
He  had  been  taught  (I  suppose)  to  sit  up  on  his 
hind-legs  and  beg  for  food  ;  at  any  rate,  that  was 
his  way  of  asking  me  for  more.  I  laughed — it 
seems  impossible  when  I  look  back  at  it  now, 
but  for  all  that  it's  true — I  laughed  till  the  tear? 
ran  down  my  cheeks,  at  the  little  beast  on  his 
haunches,  with  his  ears  pricked  up  and  his  head 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


on  one  side  and  his  mouth  watering  for  tlie 
victuals.  I  wonder  whether  I  was  in  my  right 
senses  ?  I  don't  know. 

'•  When  the  dog  had  got  all  he  could  get  he 
whined  to  be  let  out  to  roam  the  streets  again. 

"  As  I  opened  the  door  to  let  the  creature  go 
his  ways,  I  saw  my  husband  crossing  the  road  to 
come  in.  '  Keep  out'  (I  says  to  him) ;  '  to- 
night, of  all  nights,  keep  out.'  He  was  too 
drunk  to  heed  me ;  he  passed  by,  and  blunder- 
ed his  way  up  stairs.  I  followed  and  listened. 
I  heard  him  open  his  door,  and  bang  it  to,  and 
lock  it.  I  waited  a  bit,  and  went  up  another 
stair  or  two.  I  heard  him  drop  down  on  to  his 
bed.  In  a  minute  more  he  was  fast  asleep  and 
snoring. 

"It  had  all  happened  as  it  was  wanted  to 
happen.  In  two  minutes — without  doing  one 
single  thing  to  bring  suspicion  on  myself — I 
could  have  smothered  him.  I  went  into  my 
own  room.  I  took  up  the  towel  that  I  had 
laid  ready.  I  was  within  an  inch  of  it — when 
there  came  a  rush  of  something  up  into  my  head. 
I  can't  say  what  it  was.  I  can  only  say  the  hor- 
rors laid  hold  of  me  and  hunted  me  then  and 
there  out  of  the  house. 

"I  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  slipped  the  key 
of  the  street  door  into  my  pocket.  It  was  only 
half  past  nine — or  maybe  a  quarter  to  ten.  If  I 
had  any  one  clear  notion  in  my  head,  it  was  the 
notion  of  running  away,  and  never  allowing  my- 
self to  set  eyes  on  the  house  or  the  husband 
more. 

"I  went  up  the  street — and  came  back.  I 
went  down  the  street — and  carne  back.  I  tried 
it  a  third  time,  and  went  round  and  round  and 
round — and  came  back.  It  was  not  to  be  done. 
The  house  held  me  chained  to  it  like  a  dog  to 
his  kennel.  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it.  For 
the  life  of  me,  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it. 

"  A  company  of  gay  young  men  and  women 
passed  me,  just  as  I  was  going  to  let  myself  in 
again.  They  were  in  a  great  hurry.  '  Step  out, ' 
says  one  of  the  men  ;  '  the  theatre's  close  by,  and 
we  shall  be  just  in  time  for  the  farce.'  I  turned 
about  and  followed  them.  Having  been  piously 
brought  up,  I  had  never  been  inside  a  theatre  in 
my  life.  It  struck  me  that  I  might  get  taken, 
as  it  were,  out  of  myself,  if  I  saw  something  that 
was  quite  strange  to  me,  and  heard  something 
which  would  put  new  thoughts  into  my  mind. 

"They  went  in  to  the  pit ;  and  I  went  in  after 
them. 

"  The  thing  they  called  the  farce  had  begun. 
Men  and  women  came  on  to  the  stage,  turn  and 
turn  about,  and  talked,  and  went  oft'  again.  Be- 
fore long  all  the  people  about  me  in  the  pit  were 
laughing  and  clapping  their  hands.  The  noise 
they  made  angered  me.  I  don't  know  how  to 
describe  the  state  I  was  in.  My  eyes  wouldn't 
serve  me,  and  my  ears  wouldn't  serve  me,  to  see 
and  to  hear  what  the  rest  of  them  were  seeing 
and  hearing.  There  must  have  been  something, 
I  fancy,  in  my  mind  that  got  itself  between  me 
and  what  was  going  on  upon  the  stage.  The 
play  looked  fair  enough  on  the  surface ;  but 
there  was  danger  and  death  at  the  bottom  of 
it.  The  players  were  talking  and  laughing  to 
deceive  the  people — with  murder  in  their  minds 
all  the  time.  And  nobody  knew  it  but  me — and 
my  tongue  was  tied  when  I  tried  to  tell  the  oth- 
ers. I  got  up,  and  ran  out.  The  moment  I  was 


in  the  street  my  steps  turned  back  of  themselves 
on  the  way  to  the  house.  I  called  a  cab,  and 
told  the  man  to  drive  (as  far  as  a  shilling  would 
take  me)  the  opposite  way.  He  put  me  down — 
I  don't  know  where.  Across  the  street  I  saw  an 
inscription  in  letters  of  flame  over  an  open  door. 
The  man  said  it  was  a  dancing-place.  Dancing 
was  as  newto  me  as  play-going.  I  had  one  more 
shilling  left ;  and  I  paid  to  go  in,  and  see  what  a 
sight  of  the  dancing  would  do  for  me.  The  light 
from  the  ceiling  poured  down  in  this  place  as  if 
it  was  all  on  fire.  The  crashing  of  the  music  was 
dreadful.  The  whirling  round  and  round  of  men 
and  women  in  each  other's  arms  was  quite  mad- 
dening to  see.  I  don't  know  what  happened  to 
me  here.  The  great  blaze  of  light  from  the  ceil- 
ing turned  blood-red  on  a  sudden.  The  man 
standing  in  front  of  the  musicians  waving  a 
stick  took  the  likeness  of  Satan,  as  seen  in  the 
picture  in  our  family  Bible  at  home.  The  whirl- 
ing men  and  women  went  round  and  round,  with 
white  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  dead,  and  bodies 
robed  in  winding-sheets.  I  screamed  out  with 
the  terror  of.it ;  and  some  person  took  me  by  the 
arm  and  put  me  outside  the  door.  The  darkness 
did  me  good :  it  was  comforting  and  delicious — 
like  a  cool  hand  laid  on  a  hot  head.  I  went  walk- 
ing on  through  it,  without  knowing  where ;  com- 
posing my  mind  with  the  belief  that  I  had  lost  my 
way,  and  that  I  should  find  myself  miles  distant 
from  home  when  morning  dawned.  After  some 
time  I  got  too  weary  to  go  on ;  and  I  sat  me 
down  to  rest  on  a  door-step.  I  dozed  a  bit,  and 
woke  up.  When  I  got  on  my  feet  to  go  on 
again,  I  happened  to  turn  my  head  toward  the 
door  of  the  house.  The  number  on  it  was  the 
same  number  as  ours.  I  looked  again.  And 
behold,  it  was  our  steps  I  had  been  resting  on. 
The  door  was  our  door. 

"All  my  doubts  and  all  my  struggles  dropped 
out  of  my  mind  when  I  made  that  discovery. 
There  was  no  mistaking  what  this  perpetual 
coming  back  to  the  house  meant.  Kesist  it  as  I 
might,  it  was  to  be. 

"  I  opened  the  street  door  and  went  up  stairs, 
and  heard  him  sleeping  his  heavy  sleep,  exactly 
as  I  had  heard  him  when  I  went  out.  I  sat 
down  on  my  bed  and  took  off  my  bonnet,  quite 
quiet  in  myself,  because  I  knew  it  was  to  be.  I 
damped  the  towel,  and  put  it  ready,  and  took  a 
turn  in  the  room. 

"It  was  just  the  dawn  of  day.  The  sparrows 
were  chirping  among  the  trees  in  the  square  hard 
by. 

"I  drew  tip  my  blind;  the  faint  light  spoke 
to  me  as  if  in  words,  '  Do  it  now,  before  I  get 
brighter,  and  show  too  much. ' 

"I  listened.  The  friendly  silence  had  a  word 
for  me  too  :  '  Do  it  now,  and  trust  the  secret  to 
Me.' 

"  I  waited  till  the  church  clock  chimed  before 
striking  the  hour.  At  the  first  stroke — without 
touching  the  lock  of  his  door,  without  setting 
foot  in  his  room — I  had  the  towel  over  his  face. 
Before  the  last  stroke  he  had  ceased  struggling. 
When  the  hum  of  the  bell  through  the  morning 
silence  was  still  and  dead,  lie  was  still  and  dead 
with  it. 

13. 

"The  rest  of  this  history  is  counted  in  my 
mind  by  four  days — Wednesday.  Thursday,  Fri- 
day, Saturday.  After  that  it  all  fades  off  like, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


and  the  new  years  come  with  a  strange  look,  be-  ' 
ing  the  years  of  a  new  life. 

"  What  about  the  old  life  first  ?  What  did  I  i 
feel,  in  the  horrid  quiet  of  the  morning,  when  I  i 
had  done  it  ? 

"I  don't  know  what  I  felt.     I  can't  remem-  : 
ber  it,  or  I  can't  tell  it,  I  don't  know  which.     I  j 
can  write  the  history  of  the  four  days,  and  that's 
all. 

"Wednesday.  —  I  gave  the  alarm  toward 
noon.  Hours  before,  I  had  put  things  straight 
and  fit  to  be  seen.  I  had  only  to  call  for  help, 
and  to  leave  the  people  to  do  as  they  pleased. 
The  neighbors  came  in,  and  then  the  police. 
They  knocked,  uselessly,  at  his  door.  Then  they 
broke  it  open,  and  found  him  dead  in  his  bed. 

"Not  the  ghost  of  a  suspicion  of  me  entered 
the  mind  of  any  one.  There  was  no  fear  of  hu- 
man justice  rinding  me  out:  my  one  unuttera- 
ble dread  was  dread  of  an  Avenging  Providence. 
I  had  a  short  sleep  that  night,  and  a  dream,  in 
which  I  did  the  deed  over  again.  For  a  time 
my  mind  was  busy  with  thoughts  of  confessing 
to  the  police,  and  of  giving  myself  up.  If  I  had 
not  belonged  to  a  respectable  family,  I  should 
have  done  it.  From  generation  to  generation 
there  had  been  no  stain  on  our  good  name.  It 
would  be  death  to  my  father,  and  disgrace  to  all 
my  family,  if  I  owned  what  I  had  done,  and  suf- 
fered for  it  on  the  public  scaffold.  I  prayed  to 
be  guided ;  and  I  had  a  revelation,  toward  morn- 
ing, of  what  to  do. 

"I  was  commanded,  in  a  vision,  to  open  the 
Bible,  and  vow  on  it  to  set  my  guilty  self  apart 
among  my  innocent  fellow-creatures  from  that 
day  forth  ;  to  live  among  them  a  separate  and 
silent  life ;  to  dedicate  the  use  of  my  speech  to 
the  language  of  prayer  only,  offered  up  in  the 
solitude  of  my  own  chamber,  when  no  human 
ear  could  hear  me.  Alone,  in  the  morning,  I 
saw  the  vision,  and  vowed  the  vow.  No  human 
ear  has  heard  me  from  that  time.  No  human 
ear  will  hear  me,  to  the  day  of  my  death. 

"Thursday. — The  people  came  to  speak  to 
me,  as  usual.  They  found  me  dumb, 

"What  had  happened  to  me  in  the  past,  when 
my  head  had  been  hurt,  and  my  speech  affected 
by  it,  gave  a  likelier  look  to  my  dumbness  than  it 
might  have  borne  in  the  case  of  another  person. 
They  took  me  back  again  to  the  hospital.  The 
doctors  were  divided  in  opinion.  Some  said  the 
shock  of  what  had  taken  place  in  the  house,  com- 
ing on  the  back  of  the  other  shock,  might,  for 
all  they  knew,  have  done  the  mischief.  And 
others  said,  '  She  got  her  speech  again  after  the 
accident ;  there  has  been  no  new  injury  since 
that  time ;  the  woman  is  shamming  dumb,  for 
some  purpose  of  her  own.'  I  let  them  dispute 
it  as  they  liked.  All  human  talk  was  nothing 
now  to  me.  I  had  set  myself  apart  among  my 
fellow-creatures ;  I  had  begun  my  separate  and 
silent  life. 

"Through  all  this  time  the  sense  of  a  com- 
ing punishment  hanging  over  me  never  left  my 
mind.  I  had  nothing  to  dread  from  human 
justice.  The' judgment  of  an  Avenging  Provi- 
dence— there  was  what  I  was  waiting  for. 

"Friday. — They  held  the  inquest.  He  had 
been  known  for  years  past  as  an  inveterate  drunk- 
ard ;  he  had  been  seen  overnight  going  home 
in  liquor ;  he  had  been  found  locked  up  in  his 
room,  with  the  key  inside  the  door,  and  the  latch 


of  the  window  bolted  also.  No  fire-place  was 
in  this  garret ;  nothing  was  disturbed  or  altered  : 
nobody  by  human  possibility  could  have  got  in. 
The  doctor  reported  that  he  had  died  of  conges- 
tion of  the  lungs  ;  and  the  jury  gave  their  ver- 
dict accordingly. 

14. 

"  Saturday. — Marked  forever  in  my  calendar 
as  the  memorable  day  on  which  the  judgment 
descended  on  me.  Toward  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon — in  the  broad  sunlight,  under  the  cloud- 
less sky,  with  hundreds  of  innocent  human  creat- 
ures all  around  me — I,  Hester  Dethridge,  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  the  Appearance  which  is  ap- 
pointed to  haunt  me  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

"I  had  had  a  terrible  night.  My  mind  felt 
much  as  it  had  felt  on  the  evening  when  I  had 
gone  to  the  play.  I  went  out  to  see  what  the  air 
and  the  sunshine  and  the  cool  green  of  trees  and 
grass  would  do  for  me.  The  nearest  place  in 
which  I  could  find  what  I  wanted  was  the  lie- 
gent's  Park.  I  went  into  one  of  the  quiet  walks 
in  the  middle  of  the  park,  where  the  horses  and 
carriages  are  not  allowed  to  go,  and  where  old 
people  can  sun  themselves,  and  children  play, 
without  danger. 

"  I  sat  me  down  to  rest  on  a  bench.  Among 
the  children  near  me  was  a  beautiful  little  boy, 
playing  with  a  brand-new  toy — a  horse  and  wag- 
on. While  I  was  watching  him  busily  pluck- 
ing up  the  blades  of  grass  and  loading  his  wag- 
on with  them,  I  felt  for  the  first  time — what  I 
have  often  and  often  felt  since — a  creeping  chill 
come  slowly  over  my  flesh,  and  then  a  suspicion 
of  something  hidden  near  me,  which  would  steal 
out  and  show  itself  if  I  looked  that  way. 

"  There  was  a  big  tree  hard  by.  I  looked  to- 
ward the  tree,  and  waited  to  see  the  something 
hidden  appear  from  behind  it. 

"The  Thing  stole  out,  dark  and  shadowy  in 
the  pleasant  sunlight.  At  first  I  saw  only  the 
dim  figure  of  a  woman.  After  a  little  it  began 
to  get  plainer,  brightening  from  within  outward 
— brightening,  brightening,  brightening,  till  it  set 
before  me  the  vision  of  MY  OWN  SELF,  repeated 
as  if  I  was  standing  before  a  glass — the  double 
of  myself,  looking  at  me  with  my  own  eyes.  I 
saw  it  move  over  the  grass.  I  saw  it  stop  be- 
hind the  beautiful  little  boy.  I  saw  it  stand  and 
listen,  as  I  had  stood  and  listened  at  the  dawn 
of  morning,  for  the  chiming  of  the  bell  before 
the  clock  struck  the  hour.  When  it  heard  the 
stroke  it  pointed  down  to  the  boy  with  my  own 
hand ;  and  it  said  to  me,  with  my  own  voice, 
'Kill  him.' 

"A  time  passed.  I  don't  know  whether  it 
was  a  minute  or  an  hour.  The  heavens  and  the 
earth  disappeared  from  before  me.  I  saw  no- 
thing but  the  double  of  myself,  with  the  pointing 
hand.  I  felt  nothing  but  the  longing  to  kill  the 
boy. 

"Then,  as  it  seemed,  the  heavens  and  the 
earth  rushed  back  upon  me.  I  saw  the  people 
near  staring  in  surprise  at  me,  and  wondering  if 
I  was  in  my  right  mind. 

"  I  got,  by  main  force,  to  my  feet ;  I  looked, 
by  main  force,  away  from  the  beautiful  boy ;  I 
escaped,  by  main  force,  from  the  sight  of  the 
Thing,  back  into  the  streets.  I  can  only  describe 
the  overpowering  strength  of  the  temptation  that 
tried  me  in  one  way.  It  was  like  tearing  the  life 
out  of  me  to  tear  myself  from  killing  the  boy. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


227 


And  what  it  was  on  this  occasion  it  has  been 
ever  since.  No  remedy  against  it  but  in  that 
torturing  effort,  and  no  quenching  the  after-ag- 
ony but  by  solitude  and  prayer. 

"  The  sense  of  a  coming  punishment  had  hung 
over  me.  And  the  punishment  had  come.  I 
had  waited  for  the  judgment  of  an  Avenging 
Providence.  And  the  judgment  was  pronounced. 
With  pious  David  I  could  now  say,  Thy  fierce 
wrath  goeth  over  me ;  thy  terrors  have  cut  me  off. " 

Arrived  at  that  point  in  the  narrative,  Geoffrey 
looked  up  from  the  manuscript  fcr  the  first  time. 
Some  sound  outside  the  room  had  disturbed  him. 
Was  it  a  sound  in  the  passage  ? 

He  listened.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence. 
He  looked  back  again  at  the  Confession,  turning 
over  the  last  leaves  to  count  how  much  was  left 
of  it  before  it  came  to  an  end. 

After  relating  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  writer  had  returned  to  domestic  sen-ice,  the 
narrative  was  resumed  no  more.  Its  few  remain- 
ing pages  were  occupied  by  a  fragmentary  jour- 
nal. The  brief  entries  all  referred  to  the  various 
occasions  on  which  Hester  Dethridge  had  again 
and  again  seen  the  terrible  apparition  of  herself, 
and  had  again  and  again  resisted  the  homicidal 
frenzy  roused  in  her  by  the  hideous  creation  of 
her  own  distempered  brain.  In  the  effort  which 
that  resistance  cost  her  lay  the  secret  of  her  ob- 
stinate determination  to  insist  on  being  freed 
from  her  work  at  certain  times,  and  to  make  it 
a  condition  with  any  mistress  who  employed  her 
that  she  should  be  privileged  to  sleep  in  a  room 
of  her  own  at  night.  Having  counted  the  pages 
tfius  filled,  Geoffrey  turned  back  to  the  place  at 
which  he  had  left  off,  to  read  the  manuscript 
through  to  the  end. 

As  his  eyes  rested  on  the  first  line  the  noise  in 
the  passage — intermitted  for  a  moment  only — 
disturbed  him  again. 

This  time  there  was  no  doubt  of  what  the 
sound  implied.  He  heard  her  hurried  footsteps ; 
he  heard  her  dreadful  cry.  Hester  Dethridge 
had  woke  in  her  chair  in  the  parlor,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  the  Confession  was  no  longer  in  her 
own  hands. 

He  put  the  manuscript  into  the  breast-pocket 
of  his  coat.  Needless  to  read  more  of  it — the 
problem  was  solved. 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  his  heavy  face  brighten- 
ed slowly  with  a  terrible  smile.  While  the  wo- 
man's Confession  was  in  his  pocket  the  woman 
herself  was  in  his  power.  "  If  she  wants  it  back," 
he  said,  "she  must  get  it  on  my  terms."  With 
that  resolution,  he  opened  the  door,  and  met 
Hester  Dethridge,  face  to  face,  in  the  passage. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FIFTH. 

THE    SIGNS    OF    THE    END. 

THE  servant,  appearing  the  next  morning  in 
Anne's  room  with  the  breakfast  tray,  closed  the 
door  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  announced  that 
strange  things  were  going  .on  in  the  house. 

"Did  you  hear  nothing  last  night,  ma'am," 
she  asked,  "down  stairs  in  the  passage?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  voices  whispering 
outside  my  room,"  Anne  replied.  "Has  any 
thing  happened  ?" 


Extricated  from  the  confusion  in  which  she 
involved  it,  the  girl's  narrative  amounted  in  sub- 
stance to  this.  She  had  been  startled  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  her  mistress  in  the  pas- 
sage, staring  about  her  wildly,  like  a  woman  who 
had  gone  out  of  her  senses.  Almost  at  the  same 
moment  "the  master"  had  flung  open  the  draw- 
ing-room door.  He  had  caught  Mrs.  Dethridge 
by  the  arm,  had  dragged  her  into  the  room,  and 
had  closed  the  door  again.  After  the  two  had 
remained  shut  up  together  for  more  than  half  an 
hour,  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  come  out,  as  pale  as 
ashes,  and  had  gone  up  stairs  trembling  like  a 
person  in  great  terror.  Some  time  later,  when 
the  servant  was  in  bed,  but  not  asleep,  she  had 
seen  a  light  under  her  door,  in  the  narrow  wood- 
en passage  which  separated  Anne's  bedroom 
from  Hester's  bedroom,  and  by  which  she  ob- 
tained access  to  her  own  little  sleeping-chamber 
beyond.  She  had  got  out  of  bed ;  had  looked 
through  the  keyhole;  and  had  seen  "the  mas- 
ter" and  Mrs.  Dethridge  standing  together  ex- 
amining the  walls  of  the  passage.  "The  mas- 
ter" had  laid  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  on  the  side 
of  his  wife's  room,  and  had  looked  at  Mrs.  Deth- 
ridge. And  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  looked  back  at 
him,  and  had  shaken  her  head.  Upon  that  he 
had  said  in  a  whisper  (still  with  his  hand  on  the 
wooden  wall),  "Not  to  be  done  here?"  And 
Mrs.  Dethridge  had  shaken  her  head.  He  had 
considered  a  moment,  and  had  whispered  again, 
"  The  other  room  will  do,  won't  it  ?"  And  Mrs. 
Dethridge  had  nodded  her  head — and  so  they 
had  parted.  That  was  the  story  of  the  night. 
Early  in  the  morning,  more  strange  things  had 
happened.  The  master  had  gone  out,  with  a 
large  sealed  packet  in  his  hand,  covered  with 
many  stamps ;  taking  his  own  letter  to  the  post, 
instead  of  sending  the  servant  with  it  as  usual. 
On  his  return,  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  gone  out  next, 
and  had  come  back  with  something  in  a  jar  which 
she  had  locked  up  in  her  own  sitting-room. 
Shortly  afterward,  a  working-man  had  brought 
a  bundle  of  laths,  and  some  mortar  and  plaster 
of  Paris,  which  had  been  carefully  placed  to- 
gether in  a  corner  of  the  scullery.  Last,  and 
most  remarkable  in  the  series  of  domestic  events, 
the  girl  had  received  permission  to  go  home  and 
see  her  friends  in  the  country,  on  that  very  day ; 
having  been  previously  informed,  when  she  en- 
tered Mrs.  Dethridge's  service,  that  she  was  not 
to  expect  to  have  a  holiday  granted  to  her  until 
after  Christmas.  Such  were  the  strange  things 
which  had  happened  in  the  house  since  the  pre- 
vious night.  What  was  the  interpretation  to  be 
placed  on  them  ? 

The  right  interpretation  was  not  easy  to  dis- 
cover. 

Some  of  the  events  pointed  apparently  toward 
coming  repairs  or  alterations  in  tho«ottage.  But 
what  Geoffrey  could  have  to  do  with  them  (be- 
ing at  the  time  served  with  a  notice  to  quit),  and 
why  Hester  Dethridge  should  have  shown  the 
violent  agitation  which  had  been  described,  were 
mysteries  which  it  was  impossible  to  penetrate. 

Anne  dismissed  the  girl  witli  a  little  present 
and  a  few  kind  words.  Under  other  circum- 
stances, the  incomprehensible  proceedings  in  the 
house  might  have  made  her  seriously  uneasy. 
But  her  mind  was  now  occupied  by  more  press- 
ing anxieties.  Blanche's  second  letter  (received 
from  Hester  Dethridge  on  the  previous  evening) 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


informed  her  that  Sir  Patrick  persisted  in  his 
resolution,  and  that  he  and  his  niece  might  he 
expected,  come  what  might  of  it,  to  present 
themselves  at  the  cottage  on  that  day. 

Anne  opened  the  letter,  and  looked  at  it  for 
the  second  time.  The  passages  relating  to  Sir 
Patrick  were  expressed  in  these  terms : 

"I  don't  think,  darling,  you  have  any  idea  of 
the  interest  that  you  have  roused  in  my  uncle. 
Although  he  has  not  to  reproach  himself,  as  I 
have,  with  being  the  miserable  cause  of  the  sac- 
rifice that  you  have  made,  he  is  quite  as  wretch- 
ed and  quite  as  anxious  about  you  as  I  am.  We 
talk  of  nobody  else.  He  said  last  night  that  he 
did  not  believe  there  was  your  equal  in  the  world. 
Think  of  that  from  a  man  who  has  such  terribly 
sharp  eyes  for  the  faults  of  women  in  general,  and 
such  a  terribly  sharp  tongue  in  talking  of  them  ! 
I  am  pledged  to  secrecy ;  but  I  must  tell  you  one 
other  tiling,  between  ourselves.  Lord  Holches- 
ter's  announcement  that  his  brother  refuses  to 
consent  to  a  separation  put  my  uncle  almost  be- 
side himself.  If  there  is  not  some  change  for 
the  better  in  your  life  in  a  few  days'  time,  Sir 
Patrick  will  find  out  a  way  of  his  own — lawful 
or  not,  he  doesn't  care — for  rescuing  you  from 
the  dreadful  position  in  which  you  are  placed, 
and  Arnold  (with  my  full  approval)  will  help 
him.  As  we  understand  it,  you  are,  under  one 
pretense  or  another,  kept  a  close  prisoner.  Sir 
Patrick  has  already  secured  a  post  of  observation 
near  you.  He  and  Arnold  went  all  round  the 
cottage  last  night,  and  examined  a  door  in  your 
back  garden  wall,  with  a  locksmith  to  help  them. 
You  will  no  doubt  hear  further  about  this  from 
Sir  Patrick  himself.  Pray  don't  appear  to  know 
any  thing  of  it  when  you  see  him !  I  am  not  in 
his  confidence — but  Arnold  is,  which  comes  to 
the  same  thing  exactly.  You  will  see  us  (I  mean 
you  will  see  my  uncle  and  me)  to-morrow,  in 
spite  of  the  brute  who  keeps  you  under  lock  and 
key.  Arnold  will  not  accompany  us ;  he  is  not 
to  be  trusted  (he  owns  it  himself)  to  control  his 
indignation.  Courage,  dearest !  There  are  two 
people  in  the  world  to  whom  you  are  inestimably 
precious,  and  who  are  determined  not  to  let  your 
liappiness  be  sacrificed.  I  am  one  of  them,  and 
(for  Heaven's  sake  keep  this  a  secret  also!)  Sir 
Patrick  is  the  other." 

Absorbed  in  the  letter,  and  in  the  conflict  of 
opposite  feelings  which  it  roused — her  color  ris- 
ing when  it  turned  her  thoughts  inward  on  her- 
self, and  fading  again  when  she  was  reminded  by 
it  of  the  coming  visit — Anne  was  called  back  to 
a  sense  of  present  events  by  the  reappearance  of 
the  servant,  charged  with  a  message.  Mr.  Speed- 
well had  been  for  some  time  in  the  cottage,  and 
he  was  now  waiting  to  see  her  down  stairs. 

Anne  found  the  surgeon  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  apologized  for  disturbing  her  at  that 
early  hour. 

"It  was  impossible  for  me  to  get  to  Fulham 
yesterday,"  he  said,  "and  I  could  only  make! 
sure  of  complying  with  Lord  Holchester's  re- 
quest by  coming  here  before  the  time  at  which 
I  receive  patients  at  home.  I  have  seen  Mr. 
Delamayn,  and  I  have  requested  permission  to 
say  a  word  to  you  on  the  subject  of  his  Health." 

Anne  looked  through  the  window,  and  saw 
Geoffrey  smoking  his  pipe — not  in  the  back  gar- 
den, as  usual,  but  in  front  of  the  cottage,  where 
he  could  keep  his  eye  on  the  gate. 


!      "  Is  he  511  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  is  seriously  ill,"  answered  Mr.  Speedwell. 
"I  should  not  otherwise  have  troubled  you  with 
this  interview.  It  is  a  matter  of  professional 
duty  to  warn  you,  as  his  wife,  that  he  is  in  dan- 
ger. He  may  be  seized  at  any  moment  by  a 
paralytic  stroke.  The  only  chance  for  him — a 
very  poor  one,  I  am  bound  to  say — is  to  make 
him  alter  his  present  mode  of  life  without  loss 
of  time." 

"In  one  way  he  will  be  obliged  to  alter  it," 
said  Anne.  "He  has  received  notice  from  the 
landlady  to  quit  this  cottage." 

Mr.  Speedwell  looked  surprised. 

"I  think  you  will  find  that  the  notice  has  been 
withdrawn,"  he  said.  "I  can  only  assure  you 
that  Mr.  Delamayn  distinctly  informed  me,  when 
I  advised  change  of  air,  that  he  had  decided,  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  on  remaining  here." 

(Another  in  the  series  of  incomprehensible 
domestic  events !  Hester  Dethridge — on  all  oth- 
er occasions  the  most  immovable  of  women — had 
changed  her  mind !) 

"Setting  that  aside,"  proceeded  the  surgeon, 
"  there  are  two  preventive  measures  which  I  feel 
bound  to  suggest.  Mr.  Delamayn  is  evidently 
suffering  (though  he  declines  to  admit  it  him- 
self) from  mental  anxiety.  If  he  is  to  have  a 
chance  for  his  life,  that  anxiety  must  be  set  at 
rest.  Is  it  in  your  power  to  relieve  it  ?" 

"  It  is  not  even  in  my  power,  Mr.  Speedwell, 
to  tell  you  what  it  is." 

The  surgeon  bowed,  and  went  on : 

"The  second  caution  that  I  have  to  give 
you,"  he  said,  "is  to  keep  him  from  drinking 
spirits.  He  admits  having  committed  an  ex- 
cess in  that  way  the  night  before  last.  In  his 
state  of  health,  drinking  means  literally  death. 
If  he  goes  back  to  the  brandy-bottle — forgive 
me  for  saying  it  plainly ;  the  matter  is  too 
serious  to  be  trifled  with — if  he  goes  back  to 
the  brandy-bottle,  his  life,  in  my  opinion,  is 
not  worth  five  minutes' purchase.  Can  you  keep 
him  from  drinking  ?" 

Anne  answered  sadly  and  plainly : 

"I  have  no  influence  over  him.  The  terms 
we  are  living  on  here — " 

Mr.  Speedwell  considerately  stopped  her. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.  "I  will  see  his 
brother  on  my  way  home."  He  looked  for  a 
moment  at  Anne.  "You  are  far  from  well 
yourself,"  he  resumed.  "Can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  ?" 

"While  I  am  living  my  present  life,  Mr. 
Speedwell,  not  even  your  skill  can  help  me." 

The  surgeon  took  his  leave.  Anne  hurried 
back  up  stairs,  before  Geoffrey  could  re-enter 
the  cottage.  To  see  the  man  who  had  laid  her 
life  waste — to  meet  the  vindictive  hatred  that 
looked  furtively  at  her  out  of  his  eyes — at  the 
moment  when  sentence  of  death  had  been  pro- 
nounced on  him,  was  an  ordeal  from  which 
every  finer  instinct  in  her  nature  shrank  in 
horror. 

Hour  by  hour,  the  morning  wore  on,  and  he 
made  no  attempt  to  communicate  with  her. 
Stranger  still,  Hester  Dethridge  never  appear- 
ed. The  servant  came  up  stairs  to  say  good- 
by;  and  went  away  for  her  holiday.  Shortly 
afterward,  certain  sounds  reached  Anne's  ears 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage.  She 
heard  the  strokes  of  a  hammer,  and  then  a 


MAX  AND  WIFE. 


22!) 


noise  as  of  some  heavy  piece  of  furniture  being 
moved.  The  mysterious  repairs  were  apparent- 
ly being  begun  in  the  spare  room. 

She  went  to  the  window.  The  hour  was  ap- 
proaching at  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche 
might  be  expected  to  make  the  attempt  to  see 
her. 

For  the  third  time,  she  looked  at  the  letter. 

It  suggested,  on  this  occasion,  a  new  consider- 
ation to  her.  Did  the  strong  measures  which 
Sir  Patrick  had  taken  in  secret  indicate  alarm 
as  well  as  sympathy  ?  Did  he  believe  she  was  in 
a  position  in  which  the  protection  of  the  law  was 
powerless  to  reach  her?  It  seemed  just  possi- 
ble. Suppose  she  were  free  to  consult  a  magis- 
trate, and  to  own  to  him  (if  words  could  express 
it)  the  vague  presentiment  of  danger  which  was 
then  present  in  her  mind — what  proof  could  she 
produce  to  satisfy  the  mind  of  a  stranger  ?  The 
proofs  were  all  in  her  husband's  favor.  Witness- 
es could  testify  to  the  conciliatory  words  which 
he  had  spoken  to  her  in  their  presence.  The 
evidence  of  his  mother  and  brother  would  show 
that  he  had  preferred  to  sacrifice  his  own  pe- 
cuniary interests  rather  than  consent  to  part  with 
her.  She  could  furnish  nobody  with  the  small- 
est excuse,  in  her  case,  for  interfering  between 
man  and  wife.  Did  Sir  Patrick  see  this  ?  And 
did  Blanche's  description  of  what  he  and  Arnold 
Brinkworth  were  doing  point  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  were  taking  the  law  into  their  own 
hands  in  despair  ?  The  more  she  thought  of  it, 
the  more  likely  it  seemed. 

She  was  still  pursuing  the  train  of  thought 
thus  suggested,  when  the  gate-bell  rang. 

The  noises  in  the  spare  room  suddenly  stopped. 

Anne  looked  out.  The  roof  of  a  carnage  was 
visible  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  Sir  Pat- 
i  ick  and  Blanche  had  arrived.  After  an  inter- 
val Hester  Dethridge  appeared  in  the  garden, 
and  went  to  the  grating  in  the  gate.  Anne  heard 
Sir  Patrick's  voice,  clear  and  resolute.  Every 
word  he  said  reached  her  ears  through  the  open 
window. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  give  my  card  to  Mr.  Dcla- 
mayn.  Say  that  I  bring  him  a  message  from 
llolchester  House,  and  that  I  can  only  deliver  it 
at  a  personal  interview." 

Hester  Dethridge  returned  to  the  cottage. 
Another,  and  a  longer  interval  elapsed.  At  the 
end  of  the  time,  Geoffrqy  himself  appeared  in  the 
front  garden,  with  the  key  in  his  hand.  Anne's 
heart  throbbed  fast  as  she  saw  him  unlock  the 
gate,  and  asked  herself  what  was  to  follow. 

To  her  unutterable  astonishment,  Geoffrey  ad- 
mitted Sir  Patrick  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion— and,  more  still,  he  invited  Blanche  to  leave 
the  carriage  and  come  in ! 

"Let  by-gones  be  by-gones,"  Anne  heard  him 
say  to  Sir  Patrick.  ' '  I  only  want  to  do  the  right 
thing.  If  it's  the  right  thing  for  visitors  to  come 
here,  so  soon  after  my  father's  death,  come,  and 
welcome.  My  own  notion  was,  when  you  pro- 
posed it  before,  that  it  was  wrong.  I  am  not 
much  versed  in  these  things.  I  leave  it  to  you." 

' '  A  visitor  who  brings  you  messages  from  your 
mother  and  your  brother,"  Sir  Patrick  answered 
gravely,  "is  a  person  whom  it  is  your  duty  to 
admit,  Mr.  Delamayn,  under  any  circumstances." 

"  And  he  ought  to  be  none  the  less  welcome," 
added  Blanche,  "when  he  is  accompanied  by 
your  wife's  oldest  and  dearest  friend." 


Geoffrey  looked,  in  stolid  submission,  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"I  am  not  much  versed  in  these  things,"  he 
repeated.  "  I  have  said  already,  I  leave  it  to 
you." 

They  were  by  this  time  close  under  Anne's 
window.  She  showed  herself.  Sir  Patrick  took 
off  his  hat.  Blanche  kissed  her  hand  with  a  cry 
of  joy,  and  attempted  to  enter  the  cottage. 
Geoffrey  stopped  her — and  called  to  his  wife  to 
come  down. 

"  No  I  no !"  said  Blanche.  "  Let  me  go  up  to 
her  in  her  room." 

She  attempted  for  the  second  time  to  gain  the 
stairs.  For  the  second  time,  Geoffrey  stopped 
her.  "Don't  trouble  yourself,"  he  said;  "she 
is  coming  down." 

Anne  joined  them  in  the  front  garden. 
Blanche  flew  into  her  arms  and  devoured  her 
with  kisses.  Sir  Patrick  took  her  hand  in  si- 
lence. For  the  first  time  in  Anne's  experience 
of  him,  the  bright,  resolute,  self-reliant  old  man 
was,  for  the  moment,  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  at  a 
loss  what  to  do.  His  eyes,  resting  on  her  in 
mute  sympathy  and  interest,  said  plainly,  "In 
your  husband's  presence  I  must  not  trust  my- 
self to  speak." 

Geoffrey  broke  the  silence. 

' '  Will  you  go  into  the  drawing-room  ?"  he 
asked,  looking  with  steady  attention  at  his  wife 
and  Blanche. 

Geoffrey's  voice  appeared  to  rouse  Sir  Patrick. 
He  raised  bis  head  —  he  looked  like  himself 
again. 

"Why  go  indoors  this  lovely  weather?''  he 
said.  "Suppose  we  take  a  turn  in  the  garden  ?" 

Blanche  pressed  Anne's  hand  significantly. 
The  proposal  was  evidently  made  for  a  purpose. 
They  turned  the  comer  of  the  cottage  and  gained 
the  large  garden  at  the  back  —  the  two  ladies 
walking  together,  arm  in  arm ;  Sir  Patrick  and 
Geoffrey  following  them.  Little  by  little,  Blanche 
quickened  her  pace.  "I  have  got  my  instruc- 
tions," she  whispered  to  Anne.  "Let's  get  out 
of  his  hearing." 

It  was  more  easily  said  than  done.  Geoffrey 
kept  close  behind  them. 

"Consider  my  lameness,  Mr.  Delamayn,'' 
said  Sir  Patrick.  "  Not  quite  so  fast." 

It  was  well  intended.  But  Geoffrey's  cunning 
had  taken  the  alarm.  Instead  of  dropping  be- 
hind with  Sir  Patrick,  he  called  to  his  wife. 

"  Consider  Sir  Patrick's  lameness,"  he  repeat- 
ed. "  Not  quite  so  fast." 

Sir  Patrick  met  that  check  with  characteristic 
readiness.  When  Anne  slackened  her  pace,  he 
addressed  himself  to  Geoffrey,  stopping  deliberate- 
ly in  the  middle  of  the  path"  "  Let  me  give  you 
my  message  from  Holchester  House,"  he  said. 
The  two  ladies  were  still  slowly,  walking  on. 
Geoffrey  was  placed  between  the  alternatives  of 
staying  with  Sir  Patrick  and  leaving  them  by 
themselves — or  of  following  them  and  leaving 
Sir  Patrick.  Deliberately,  on  his  side,  he  fol- 
lowed the  ladies. 

Sir  Patrick  called  him  back.  "I  told  you  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Driven  to  bay,  Geoffrey  openly  revealed  his 
resolution  to  give  Blanche  no  opportunity  of 
speaking  in  private  to  Anne.  He  called  to  Anne 
to  stop. 

"  I  have  no  secrets  from  my  wife,"  he  said. 


230 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


"  And  I  expect  my  wife  to  have  no  secrets  from 
me.  Give  me  the  message  in  her  hearing. " 

Sir  Patrick's  eyes  brightened  with  indigna- 
tion. He  controlled  himself,  and  looked  for  an 
instant  significantly  at  his  niece  before  he  spoke 
to  Geoffrey. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said.  "Your  brother 
reqnests  me  to  tell  yon  that  the  duties  of  the  new 
position  in  which  he  is  placed  occupy  the  whole 
of  his  time,  and  will  prevent  him  from  returning 
to  Fulham,  as  he  had  proposed,  for  some  days  to 
come.  Lady  Holchester,  hearing  that  I  was 
likely  to  see  you,  has  charged  me  with  another 
message,  from  herself.  She  is  not  well  enough 
to  leave  home;  and  she  wishes  to  see  you  at 
Holchester  House  to-morrow — accompanied  (as 
she  specially  desires)  by  Mrs.  Delamayn." 

In  giving  the  two  messages,  he  gradually 
raised  his  voice  to  a  louder  tone  than  usual. 
While  he  was  speaking,  Blanche  (warned  to  fol- 
low her  instructions  by  the  glance  her  uncle  had 
cast  at  her)  lowered  her  voice,  and  said  to 
Anne : 

"He  won't  consent  to  the  separation  as  long 
as  he  has  got  you  here.  He  is  trying  for  higher 
terms.  Leave  him,  and  he  must  submit.  Put  a 
candle  in  your  window,  if  you  can  get  into  the 
garden  to-night.  If  not,  any  other  night.  Make 
for  the  back  gate  in  the  wall.  Sir  Patrick  and 
Arnold  will  manage  the  rest." 

She  slipped  those  words  into  Anne's  ears — 
swinging  her  parasol  to  and  fro,  and  looking  as 
if  the  merest  gossip  was  dropping  from  her  lips 
— with  the  dexterity  which  rarely  fails  a  woman 
when  she  is  called  on  to  assist  a  deception  in 
which  her  own  interests  are  concerned.  Clever- 
ly as  it  had  been  done,  however,  Geoffrey's  in- 
veterate distrust  was  stirred  into  action  by  it. 
Blanche  had  got  to  her  last  sentence  before  he 
was  able  to  turn  his  attention  from  what  Sir  Pat- 
rick was  saying  to  what  his  niece  was  saying.  A 
quicker  man  would  have  heard  more.  Geoffrey 
had  only  distinctly  heard  the  first  half  of  the  last 
sentence. 

"What's  that,"  he  asked,  "about  Sir  Patrick 
and  Arnold  ?" 

"Nothing  veiy  interesting  to  you,"  Blanche 
answered  readily.  "I  will  repeat  it  if  you  like. 
I  was  telling  Anne  about  my  step-mother,  Lady 
Lundie.  After  what  happened  that  day  in  Port- 
land Place,  she  declines  to  take  any  further  inter- 
est in  my  welfare ;  and  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold 
are  requested  to  consider  themselves,  for  the  fu- 
ture as  total  strangers  to  her.  That's  all." 

"Oh!"  said  Geoffrey,  eying  her  narrowly. 
"  That's  all  ?" 

"Ask  my  uncle,"  returned  Blanche,  "if  you 
don't  believe  that  I  have  reported  her  correctly. 
She  gave  us  all  our  dismissal,  in  her  most  mag- 
nificent manner,  and  in  those  very  words.  Didn't 
she,  Sir  Patrick  ?" 

It  was  perfectly  true.  Blanche's  readiness  of 
resource  had  met  the  emergency  of  the  moment 
liy  describing  something,  in  connection  with  Sir 
Patrick  and  Arnold,  which  had  really  happened. 
Silenced  on  one  side,  in  spite  of  himself,  Geoffrey 
was  at  the  same  moment  pressed  on  the  other, 
for  an  answer  to  his  mother's  message. 

"  I  must  take  your  reply  to  Lady  Holchester," 
said  Sir  Patrick.  "  What  is  it  to  be  ?" 

Geoffrey  looked  hard  at  him,  without  making 
any  reply. 


Sir  Patrick  repeated  the  message — with  a  spe- 
cial emphasis  on  that  part  of  it  which  related  to 
Anne.  The  emphasis  roused  Geoffrey's  temper. 

"You  and  my  mother  have  made  that  mes- 
sage up  between  you,  to  try  me ! "  he  burst  out. 
" Damn  all  underhand  work  is  what  1  say!" 

"  I  am  waiting  for  your  answer,"  persisted  Sir 
Patrick,  steadily  ignoring  the  words  which  had 
just  been  addressed  to  him. 

Geoffrey  glanced  at  Anne,  and  suddenly  re- 
|  covered  himself. 

"  My  love  to  my  mother,"  he  said.  "  I'll  go 
i  to  her  to-morrow — and  take  my  wife  with  me, 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  Do  you  hear  that  ? 
With  the  greatest  pleasure."  He  stopped  to  ob- 
serve the  effect  of  his  reply.  Sir  Patrick  waited 
impenetrably  to  hear  more — if  he  had  more  to 
say.  "  I'm  sorry  I  lost  my  temper  just  now,"  he 
resumed.  "I  am  badly  treated — I'm  distrusted 
without  a  cause.  I  ask  you  to  bear  witness," 
he  added,  his  voice  getting  louder  again,  while 
his  eyes  moved  uneasily  backward  and  forward 
between  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne,  "that  I  treat  my 
wife  as  becomes  a  lady.  Her  friend  calls  on 
her — and  she's  free  to  receive  her  friend.  My 
mother  wants  to  see  her — and  I  promise  to  take 
her  to  my  mother's.  At  two  o'clock  to-morrow. 
Where  am  I  to  blame  ?  You  stand  there  look- 
ing at  me,  and  saying  nothing.  Where  am  I  to 
blame  ?" 

"If  a  man's  own  conscience  justifies  him,  Mr. 
Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "the  opinions  of 
others  are  of*  very  little  importance.     My  errand 
!  here  is  performed." 

As  he  turned  to  bid  Anne  farewell,  the  uneasi- 
ness that  he  felt  at  leaving  her  forced  its  way  to 
view.  The  color  faded  out  of  his  face.  His 
hand  trembled  as  it  closed  tenderly  and  firmly 
on  hers.  "I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,  at  Hol- 
chester House,"  he  said;  giving  his  arm  while 
he  spoke  to  Blanche.  He  took  leave  of  Geoffrey, 
without  looking  at  him  again,  and  without  seeing 
his  offered  hand.  In  another  minute  they  were 
gone. 

Anne  waited  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  cottage, 
while  Geoffrey  closed  and  locked  the  gate.  She 
had  no  wish  to  appear  to  avoid  him,  after  the 
answer  that  he  had  sent  to  his  mother's  message. 
He  returned  slowly  half-way  across  the  front 
garden,  looked  toward  the  passage  in  which  she 
was  standing,  passed  befi^e  the  door,  and  disap- 
peared round  the  corner  of  the  cottage  on  his 
way  to  the  back  garden.  The  inference  was  not 
to  be  mistaken.  It  was  Geoffrey  who  was  avoid- 
ing her.  Had  he  lied  to  Sir  Patrick?  When 
the  next  day  came  would  he  find  reasons  of  his 
own  for  refusing  to  take  her  to  Holchester 
House  ? 

She  went  up  stairs.  At  the  same  moment 
Hester  Dethridge  opened  her  bedroom  door  to 
come  out.  Observing  Anne,  she  closed  it  again  ; 
and  remained  invisible  in  her  room.  Once  more 
the  inference  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  Hester 
Dethridge,  also,  had  her  reasons  for  avoiding 
Anne. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  What  object  could  there 
be  in  common  between  Hester  and  Geoffrey  ? 

There  was  no  fathoming  the  meaning  of  it. 

Anne's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  communication 

which  had  been  secretly  made  to  her  by  Blanche. 

It  was  not  in  womanhood  to  be  insensible  to  such 

!  devotion  as  Sir  Patrick's  conduct  implied.    Tcr- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


231 


rible  as  her  position  had  become  in  its  ever- 
growing uncertainty,  in  its  never-ending  sus- 
pense, the  oppression  of  it  yielded  for  the  mo- 
ment to  the  glow  of  pride  and  gratitude  which 
warmed  her  heart,  as  she  thought  of  the  sacri- 
fices that  had  been  made,  of  the  perils  that  were 
still  to  be  encountered,  solely  for  her  sake.  To 
shorten  the  period  of  suspense  seemed  to  be  a 
duty  which  she  owed  to  Sir  Patrick,  as  well  as 
to  "herself.  Why,  in  her  situation,  wait  for 
what  the  next  day  might  bring  forth  ?  If  the 
opportunity  offered,  she  determined  to  put  the 
signal  in  the  window  that  night. 

Toward  evening  she  heard  once  more  the 
noises  which  appeared  to  indicate  that  repairs 
cf  some  sort  were  going  on  in  the  house.  This 
time  the  sounds  were  fainter ;  and  they  came, 
as  she  fancied,  not  from  the  spare  room,  as  be- 
fore, but  from  Geoffrey's  room,  next  to  it. 

The  dinner  was  later  than  usual  that  day. 
Hester  Dethridge  did  not  appear  with  the  tray 
till  dusk.  Anne  spoke  to  her,  and  received  a 
mute  sign  in  answer.  Determined  to  see  the 
woman's  face  plainly,  she  put  a  question  which 
required  a  written  answer  on  the  slate ;  and,  tell- 
ing Hester  to  wait,  went  to  the  mantle-piece  to 
light  her  candle.  When  she  turned  round  with 
the  lighted  candle  in  her  hand,  Hester  was 
gone. 

Night  came.  She  rang  her  bell  to  have  the 
tray  taken  away.  The  fall  of  a  strange  footstep 
startled  her  outside  her  door.  She  called  out, 
''Who's  there?"  The  voice  of  the  lad  whom 
Geoffrey  employed  to  go  on  errands  for  him  an- 
swered her. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?"  she  asked, 
through  the  door. 

' '  Mr.  Delamayn  sent  me  up,  ma'am.  He 
wishes  to  speak  to  you  directly.''' 

Anne  found  Geoffrey  in  the  dining-room.  His 
object  in  wishing  to  speak  to  her  was,  on  the 
surface  of  it,  trivial  enough.  He  wanted  to  know 
how  she  would  prefer  going  to  Holchester  House 
on  the  next  day — by  the  railway,  or  in  a  car- 
riage. "If  you  prefer  driving,"  he  said,  "the 
boy  has  come  here  for  orders ;  and  he  can  tell 
them  to  send  a  carriage  from  the  livery-stables, 
as  he  goes  home. " 

"The  railway  will  do  perfectly  well  for  me," 
Anne  replied. 

Instead  of  accepting  the  answer,  and  dropping 
the  subject,  he  asked  her  to  reconsider  her  de- 
cision. There  was  an  absent,  uneasy  expression 
in  his  eye  as  he  begged  her  not  to  consult  econ- 
omy at  the  expense  of  her  own  comfort.  He 
appeared  to  have  some  reason  of  his  own  for 
preventing  her  from  leaving  the  room.  "Sit 
down  a  minute,  and  think  before  you  decide," 
lie  said.  Having  forced  her  to  take  a  chair,  he 
put  his  head  outside  the  door,  and  directed  the 
lad  to  go  up  stairs,  and  see  if  he  had  left  his  pipe 
in  his  bedroom.  "I  want  you  to  go  in  com- 
fort, as  a  lady  should,"  he  repeated,  with  the 
uneasy  look  more  marked  than  ever.  Before 
Anne  could  reply,  the  lad's  voice  reached  them 
from  the  bedroom  floor,  raised  in  shrill  alarm, 
and  screaming  "  Fire !" 

Geoffrey  ran  up  stafrs.  Anne  followed  him. 
The  lad  met  them  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He 
pointed  to  the  open  door  of  Anne's  room.  She 
was  absolutely  certain  of  having  left  her  lighted 
candle,  when  she  went  down  to  Geoffrey,  at  a 


safe  distance  from  the  bed-curtains.     The  bed- 
curtains,  nevertheless,  were  in  a  blaze  of  fire. 

There  was  a  supply  of  water  to  the  cottage,  on 
the  upper  floor.  The  bedroom  jugs  and  cans, 
usually  in  their  places  at  an  earlier  hour,  were 
standing  that  night  at  the  cistern.  An  empty 
pail  was  left  near  them.  Directing  the  lad  to 
bring  him  water  from  these  resources,  Geoffrey 
tore  down  the  curtains  in  a  flaming  heap,  partly 
on  the  bed  and  partly  on  the  sofa  near  it.  Using 
the  can  and  the  pail  alternately,  as  the  boy  brought 
them,  he  drenched  the  bed  and  the  sofa.  It  was 
all  over  in  little  more  than  a  minute.  The  cot- 
tage was  saved.  But  the  bed-furniture  was  de- 
stroyed ;  and  the  room,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
was  rendered  uninhabitable,  for  that  night  at 
least,  and  probably  for  more  nights  to  come. 

Geoffrey  set  down  the  empty  pail ;  and,  turn- 
ing to  Anne,  pointed  across  the  passage. 

"You  won't  be  much  inconvenienced  by  this," 
he  said.  ' '  You  have  only  to  shift  your  quarters 
to  the  spare  room." 

With  the  assistance  of  the  lad,  he  moved 
Anne's  boxes,  and  the  chest  of  drawers,  which 
had  escaped  damage,  into  the  opposite  room. 
This  done,  he  cautioned  her  to  be  careful  with 
her  candles  for  the  future — and  went  down  stairs, 
without  waiting  to  hear  what  she  said  in  reply. 
The  lad  followed  him,  and  was  dismissed  for  the 
night. 

Even  in  the  confusion  which  attended  the  ex- 
tinguishing of  the  fire,  the  conduct  of  Hester 
Dethridge  had  been  remarkable  enough  to  force 
itself  on  the  attention  of  Anne. 

She  had  come  out  from  her  bedroom,  when  the 
alarm  was  given ;  had  looked  at  the  flaming  cur- 
tains ;  and  had  drawn  back,  stolidly  submissive, 
into  a  corner  to  wait  the  event.  There  she  had 
stood — to  all  appearance,  utterly  indifferent  to  the 
possible  destruction  of  her  own  cottage.  The  fire 
extinguished,  she  still  waited  impenetrably  in  her 
corner,  while  the  chest  of  drawers  and  the  boxes 
were  being  moved — then  locked  the  door,  with- 
out even  a  passing  glance  at  the  scorched  ceiling 
and  the  burned  bed-furniture — put  fhe  key  into 
her  pocket — and  went  back  to  her  room. 

Anne  had  hitherto  not  shared  the  conviction 
felt  by  most  other  persons  who  were  brought  into 
contact  with  Hester  Dethridge,  that  the  woman's 
mind  was  deranged.  After  what  she  had  just 
seen,  however,  the  general  -impression  became 
her  impression  too.  She  had  thought  of  putting 
certain  questions  to  Hester,  when  they  were  left 
together,  as  to  the  origin  of  the  fire.  Reflection 
decided  her  on  saying  nothing,  for  that  night  at 
least.  She  crossed  the  passage,  and  entered  the 
spare  room — the  room  which  she  had  declined  to 
occupy  on  her  arrival  at  the  cottage,  and  which 
she  was  obliged  to  sleep  in  now. 

She  was  instantly  struck  by  a  change  in  the 
disposition  of  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

The  bed  had  been  moved.  The  head — set, 
when  she  had  last  seen  it,  against  the  side  wall 
of  the  cottage — was  placed  now  against  the  par- 
tition wall  which  separated  the  room  from  Geof- 
frey's room.  This  new  arrangement  had  evi- 
dently been  effected  with  a  settled  purpose  of 
some"  sort.  The  hook  in  the  ceiling  which  sup- 
ported the  curtains  (the  bed,  unlike  the  bed  in 
the  other  room,  having  no  canopy  attached  to  it) 
had  been  moved  so  as  to  adapt  itself  to  the  change 
that  had  been  made.  The  chairs  and  the  wash- 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


hand-stand,  formerly  placed  against  the  partition 
wall,  were  now,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  shifted 
over  to  the  vacant  space  against  the  side  wall  of 
the  cottage.  For  the  rest,  no  other  alteration 
was  visible  in  any  part  of  the  room. 

In  Anne's  situation,  any  event  not  immediate- 
ly intelligible  on  the  face  of  it,  was  an  event  to  be 
distrusted.  Was  there  a  motive  for  the  change 
in  the  position  of  the  bed  ?  And  was  it,  by  any 
chance,  a  motive  in  which  she  was  concerned  ? 

The  doubt  had  barely  occurred  to  her,  before 
a  startling  suspicion  succeeded  it.  Was  there 
some  secret  purpose  to  be  answered  by  making 
her  sleep  in  the  spare  room  ?  Did  the  question 
which  the  servant  had  heard  Geoffrey  put  to 
Hester,  on  the  previous  night,  refer  to  this? 
Had  the  fire  which  had  so  unaccountably  caught 
the  curtains  in  her  own  room,  been,  by  any  pos- 
sibility, a  fire  purposely  kindled,  to  force  her  out  ? 

She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  faint  with 
horror,  as  those  three  questions  forced  them- 
selves in  rapid  succession  on  her  mind. 

After  waiting  a  little,  she  recovered  self-pos- 
session enough  to  recognize  the  first  plain  ne- 
cessity of  putting  her  suspicions  to  the  test.  It 
was  possible  that  her  excited  fancy  had  filled  her 
with  a  purely  visionary  alarm.  For  all  she  knew 
to  the  contrary,  there  might  be  some  undeniably 
sufficient  reason  for  changing  the  position  of  the 
bed.  She  went  out,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Hester  Dethridge's  room. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

Hester  came  out.  Anne  pointed  to  the  spare 
room,  and  led  the  way  to  it.  Hester  followed 
her. 

"  Why  have  you  changed  the  place  of  the 
bed,"  she  asked,  "from  the  wall  there,  to  the 
wall  here?" 

Stolidly  submissive  to  the  question,  as  she  had 
been  stolidly  submissive  to  the  fire,  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  wrote  her  reply.  On  all  other  occasions 
she  was  accustomed  to  look  the  persons  to  whom 
she  offered  her  slate  steadily  in  the  face.  Now, 
for  the  first  time,  she  handed  it  to  Anne  with  her 
eyes  on  the  floor.  The  one  line  written  contain- 
ed no  direct  answer :  the  words  were  these : 

"  I  have  meant  to  move  it,  for  some  time  past." 

"I  ask  you  why  you  have  moved  it." 

She  wrote  these  four  words  on  the  slate : 
"The  wall  is  damp." 

Anne  looked  at  the  wall.  There  was  no  sign 
of  damp  on  the  paper.  She  passed  her  hand 
over  it.  Feel  where  she  might,  the  wall  was  diy. 

"  That  is  not  your  reason,"  she  said. 

Hester  stood  immovable. 

"  There  is  no  dampness  in  the  wall." 

Hester  pointed  impenetrably  with  her  pencil  to 
the  four  words,  still  without  looking  up — waited 
n  moment  for  Anne  to  read  them  again — and  left 
the  room. 

It  was  plainly  useless  to  call  her  back.  Anne's 
first  impulse  when  she  was  alone  again  was 
to  secure  the  door.  She  not  only  locked  it,  but 
bolted  it  at  top  and  bottom.  The  mortise  of  the 
lock  and  the  staples  of  the  bolts,  when  she  tried 
them,  were  firm.  The  lurking  treachery — wher- 
ever else  it  might  be — was  not  in  the  fastenings  of 
the  door. 

She  looked  all  round  the  room ;  examining  the 
fire-place,  the  window  and  its  shutters,  the  interior 
of  the  wardrobe,  the  hidden  space  nnder  the  bed. 
Nothing  was  any  where  to  be  discovered  which 


could  justify  the  most  timid  person  living  in 
feeling  suspicion  or  alarm. 

Appearances,  fair  as  they  were,  failed  to  con- 
vince her.  The  presentiment  of  some  hidden 
treachery,  steadily  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to 
her  in  the  dark,  had  rooted  itself  firmly  in  her 
mind.  She  sat  down,  and  tried  to  trace  her 
way  back  to  the  clew,  through  the  earlier  events 
of  the  day. 

The  effort  was  fruitless :  nothing  definite,  no- 
thing tangible,  rewarded  it.  Worse  still,  a  new 
doubt  grew  out  of  it — a  doubt  whether  the  mo- 
tive which  Sir  Patrick  had  avowed  (through 
Blanche)  was  the  motive  for  helping  her  which 
was  really  in  his  mind. 

Did  he  sincerely  believe  Geoffrey's  conduct  to 
be  animated  by  no  worse  object  than  a  mercena- 
ry object  ?  and  was  his  only  purpose  in  planning 
to  remove  her  out  of  her  husband's  reach,  to  force 
Geoffrey's  consent  to  their  separation  on  the 
terms  which  Julius  had  proposed  ?  Was  this 
really  the  sole  end  that  he  had  in  view  ?  or  was 
he  secretly  convinced  (knowing  Anne's  position 
as  he  knew  it)  that  she  was  in  personal  danger 
at  the  cottage?  and  had  he  considerately  kept 
that  conviction  concealed,  in  the  fear  that  he 
might  otherwise  encourage  her  to  feel  alarmed 
about  herself?  She  looked  round  the  strange 
room,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  she  felt 
that  the  latter  interpretation  was  the  likeliest 
interpretation  of  the  two. 

The  sounds  caused  by  the  closing  of  the  doors 
and  windows  reached  her  from  the  ground-floor. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? 

It  was  impossible  to  show  the  signal  which 
had  been  agreed  on  to  Sir  Patrick  and  Avnold. 
The  window  in  which  they  expected  to  see  it 
was  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  the  fire 
had  broken  out — the  room  which  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  had  locked  up  for  the  night. 

It  was  equally  hopeless  to  wait  until  the  police- 
man passed  on  his  beat,  and  to  call  for  help. 
Even  if  she  could  prevail  upon  herself  to  make 
that  open  acknowledgment  of  distrust  under  her 
husband's  roof,  and  even  if  help  was  near,  what 
valid  reason  could  she  give  for  raising  an  alarm  ? 
There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  to  justify 
any  one  in  placing  her  under  the  protection  of 
the  law. 

As  a  last  resource,  impelled  by  her  blind  dis- 
trust of  the  change  in  the  position  of  the  bed,  she 
attemped  to  move  it.  The  utmost  exertion  of 
her  strength  did  not  suffice  to  stir  the  heavy  piece 
of  furniture  out  of  its  place,  by  so  much  as  a 
hair's  breadth. 

There  was  no  alternative  but  to  trust  to  the  se- 
curity of  the  locked  and  bolted  door,  and  to  keep 
watch  through  the  night — certain  that  Sir  Pat- 
rick and  Arnold  were,  on  their  part,  also  keep- 
ing watch  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  the  cot- 
tage. She  took  out  her  work  and  her  books ; 
and  returned  to  her  chair,  placing  it  near  the 
table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  last  noises  which  told  of  life  and  move- 
ment about  her  died  away.  The  breathless 
stillness  of  the  night  closed  round  her. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


233 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SIXTH. 

THE    MEANS. 

THE  new  day  dawned ;  the  sun  rose ;  the 
household  was  astir  again.  Inside  the  spare 
room,  and  outside  the  spare  room,  nothing  had 
happened. 

At  the  hour  appointed  for  leaving  the  cottage 
to  pay  the  promised  visit  to  Holchester  House, 
Hester  Dethridge  and  Geoffrey  were  alone  to- 
gether in  the  bedroom  in  which  Anne  had  pass- 
ed the  night. 

"  She's  dressed,  and  waiting  for  me  in  the  front 
garden,"  said  Geoffrey.  "You  wanted  to  see 
me  here  alone.  I've  got  away  from  her  for  a 
minute  or  two.  What  is  it  ?" 

Hester  pointed  to  the  bed. 
*    "You  want  it  moved  from  the  wall  ?" 

Hester  nodded  her  head. 

They  moved  the  bed  some  feet  away  from  the 
partition  wall.  After  a  momentary  pause,  Geof- 
frey spoke  again. 

"It  must  be  done  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Her 
friends  may  interfere ;  the  girl  may  come  back. 
It  must  be  done  to-night." 

Hester  bowed  her  head  slowly. 

"  How  long  do  you  want  to  be  left  by  yourself 
in  the  house?" 

She  held  up  three  of  her  fingers. 

"  Does  that  mean  three  hours?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Will  it  be  done  in  that  time?'' 

She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

Thus  far,  she  had  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 
In  her  manner  of  listening  to  him  when  he  spoke, 
in  the  slightest  movement  that  she  made  when 
necessity  required  it,  the  same  lifeless  submission 
to  him,  the  same  mute  horror  of  him,  was  express- 
ed. He  had,  thus  far,  silently  resented  this,  on 
his  side.  On  the  point  of  leaving  the  room  the 
restraint  which  he  had  laid  on  himself  gave  way. 
For  the  first  time,  he  resented  it  in  words. 

'•Why  the  devil  can't  you  look  at  me?"  he 
asked. 

She  let  the  question  pass,  without  a  sign  to 
show  that  she  had  heard  him.  He  angrily  re- 
peated it.  She  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  held  it 
out  to  him — still  without  raising  her  eyes  to  his 
face. 

"You  know  yon  can  speak,"  he  said.  "You 
know  I  have  found  you  out.  What's  the  use  of 
playing  the  fool  with  me  ?" 

She  persisted  in  holding  the  slate  before  him. 
He  read  these  words : 

"I  am  dumb  to  you,  and  blind  to  you.  Let 
me  be." 

' '  Let  you  be ! "  he  repeated.  ' '  It's  a  little  late 
in  the  day  to  be  scrupulous,  after  what  you  have 
done.  Do  you  want  your  Confession  back,  or 
not  ?" 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his 
lips,  she  raised  her  head.  A  faint  tinge  of  color 
showed  itself  on  her  livid  cheeks ;  a  momentary 
spasm  of  pain  stin-ed  her  deathlike  face.  The 
one  last  interest  left  in  the  woman's  life  was  the 
interest  of  recovering  the  manuscript  which  had 
l>een  taken  from  her.  To  that  appeal  the  stunned 
intelligence  still  faintly  answered  —  and  to  no 
other. 

"Remember  the  bargain  on  your  side, "Geof- 
frey went  on,  "and  I'll  remember  the  bargain  on 
mine.  This  is  how  it  stands,  you  know.  I  have 


read  your  Confession :  and  I  find  one  thing  want- 
ing. You  don't  tell  how  it  was  done.  I  know 
you  smothered  him — but  I  don't  know  how.  I 
want  to  know.  You're  dumb ;  and  you  can't  tell 
me.  You  must  do  it  again  here,  as  you  did  it  in 
the  other  house.  You  run  no  risks.  There  isn't 
a  soul  to  see  you.  You  have  got  the  place  to 
yourself.  When  I  come  back  let  me  find  this 
wall  like  the  other  wall — at  that  small  hour  of 
the  morning  you  know,  when  you  were  waiting, 
with  the  towel  in  your  hand,  for  the  first  stroke 
of  the  clock.  Let  me  find  that ;  and  to-morrow 
you  shall  have  your  Confession  in  your  own 
hands." 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his 
lips  for  the  second  time,  the  sinking  energy  in 
the  woman  leaped  up  in  her  once  more.  She 
snatched  her  slate  from  her  side ;  and,  writing  on 
it  rapidly,  held  it,  with  both  hands,  close  under 
his  eyes.  He  read  these  words : 

" I  won't  wait.     I  must  have  it  to-night." 

"Do  you  think  I  keep  your  Confession  about 
me?"  said  Geoffrey.  "I  haven't  even  got  it  in 
the  house." 

She  staggered  back ;  and  looked  up  for  the  first 
time — staring  at  him  in  speechless  terror. 

"Don't  alarm  yourself,"  he  went  on.  "It's 
sealed  tip  with  my  seal ;  and  it's  safe  in  my  bank- 
ers' keeping.  I  posted  it  to  them  myself.  Yon 
don't  stick  at  a  trifle,  Mrs.  Dethridge.  If  I  had 
kept  it  locked  up  in  the  house,  you  might  have 
forced  the  lock  when  my  back  was  turned.  If  I 
had  kept  it  about  me — I  might  have  had  that 
towel  over  my  face,  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning !  The  bankers  will  give  you  back  your 
Confession — just  as  they  have  received  it  from 
me — on  receipt  of  an  order  in  my  handwriting. 
Do  what  I  have  told  you ;  and  you  shall  have  the 
order  to-night." 

She  passed  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  drew  a 
long  breath  of  relief.  Geoffrey  turned  to  the  door. 

"  I  will  be  back  at  six  this  evening,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  find  it  done?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

His  first  condition  accepted,  he  proceeded  to 
the  second. 

"  When  the  opportunity  offers,"  he  resumed. 
"I  shall  go  up  to  my  room.  You  will  hear  me 
ring  the  bell  for  a  candle.  At  that  signal,  you 
will  follow  me  in — and  you  will  show  me  how  you 
did  it  in  the  empty  house  ?" 

She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  in  the  passage 
below  was  opened  and  closed  again.  Geoffrey 
instantly  made  for  the  stairs.  It  was  possible 
that  Anne  might  have  forgotten  something ;  and 
it  was  necessary  to  prevent  her  from  returning  to 
her  own  room. 

They  met  in  the  passage. 

"  Tired  of  waiting  in  the  garden  ?"  ne  asked, 
abruptly. 

She  pointed  to  the  dining-room. 

"The  postman  has  just  given  me  a  letter  for 
you,  through  the  grating  in  the  gate,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  have  put  it  on  the  table  in  there." 

He  went  in.  The  handwriting  on  the  address 
of  the  letter  was  the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  He  put  it  unread  into  his  pocket,  and  went 
back  to  Anne. 

"Step  out!"  he  said.  "We  shall  lose  the 
train." 

They  started  for  their  visit  to  Holchester  House. 


234 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SEVENTH. 

THE  END, 

AT  a  few  minutes  before  six  o'clock  that  even- 
ing, Lord  Holchester's  carriage  brought  Geoffrey 
and  Anne  back  to  the  cottage. 

Geoffrey  prevented  the  servant  from  ringing  at 
the  gate.  He  had  taken  the  key  with  him,  when 
he  left  home  earlier  in  the  day.  Having  admitted 
Anne,  and  having  closed  the  gate  again,  he  went 
on  before  her  to  the  kitchen  window,  and  called 
to  Hester  Dethridge. 

"  Take  some  cold  water  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  fill  the  vase  on  the  chimney-piece, "  he  said. 
"The  sooner  you  put  those  flowers  into  water,'' 
he  added,  turning  to  his  wife,  "the  longer  they 
will  last." 

He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  nosegay  in  Anne's 
hand,  which  Julius  had  gathered  for  her  from  the 
conservatory  at  Holchester  House.  Leaving  her 
to  arrange  the  flowers  in  the  vase,  he  went  up 
stairs.  After  waiting  for  a  moment,  he  was  join- 
ed by  Hester  Dethridge. 

"Done?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Hester  made  the  affirmative  sign.  Geoffrey 
took  off  his  boots,  and  led  the  way  into  the  spare 
room.  They  noiselessly  moved  the  bed  back  to 
its  place  against  the  partition  wall — and  left  the 
room  again.  When  Anne  entered  it,  some  min- 
utes afterward,  not  the  slightest  change  of  any 
kind  was  visible  since  she  had  last  seen  it  in  the 
middle  of  the  day. 

She  removed  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  sat 
down  to  rest. 

The  whole  course  of  events,  since  the  previous 
night,  had  tended  one  way,  and  had  exerted  the 
snme  delusive  influence  over  her  mind.  It  was 
impossible  for  her  any  longer  to  resist  the  con- 
viction that  she  had  distrusted  appearances  with- 
out the  slightest  reason,  and  that  she  had  per- 
mitted purely  visionary  suspicions  to  fill  her  with 
purely  causeless  alarm.  In  the  firm«belief  that 
she  was  in  danger,  she  had  watched  through  the 
night — and  nothing  had  happened.  In  the  con- 
fident anticipation  that  Geoffrey  had  promised 
what  he  was  resolved  not  to  perform,  she  had 
waited  to  see  what  excuse  he  would  find  for 
keeping  her  at  the  cottage.  And,  when  the  time 
came  for  the  visit,  she  found  him  ready  to  fulfill 
the  engagement  which  he  had  made.  At  Hol- 
chester House,  not  the  slightest  interference  had 
been  attempted  with  her  perfect  liberty*  of  ac- 
tion and  speech,  Hesolved  to  inform  Sir  Pat- 
rick that  she  had  changed  her  room,  she  had  de- 
scribed the  alarm  of  fire  and  the  events  which  had 
succeeded  it,  in  the  fullest  detail — and  had  not 
been  once  checked  by  Geoffrey  from  beginning  to 
end.  She  had  spoken  in  confidence  to  Blanche, 
and  had  never  been  interrupted.  Walking  round 
the  conservatory,  she  had  dropped  behind  the 
others  with  perfect  impunity,  to  say  a  grateful 
word  to  Sir  Patrick,  and  to  ask  if  the  interpreta- 
tion that  he  placed  on  Geoffrey's  conduct  was  real- 
ly the  interpretation  which  had  been  hinted  at  by 
Blanche.  They  had  talked  together  for  ten  minutes 
or  more.  Sir  Patrick  had  assured  her  that  Blanche 
had  correctly  represented  his  opinion.  He  had 
declared  his  conviction  that  the  rash  way  was,  in 
her  case,  the  right  way ;  and  that  she  would  do 
well  (with  his  assistance)  to  take  the  initiative,  in 
the  matter  of  the  separation,  on  herself.  ' '  As 
long  as  he  can  keep  you  under  the  same  roof 


with  him" — Sir  Patrick  had  said — "so  long  he 
will  speculate  on  our  anxiety  to  release  you  from 
the  oppression  of  living  with  him ;  and  so  long 
he  will  hold  out  with  his  brother  (in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  penitent  husband)  for  higher  terms.  Put 
the  signal  in  the  window,  and  try  the  experiment 
to-night.  Once  find  your  way  to  the  garden 
door,  and  I  answer  for  keeping  you  safely  out  of 
his  reach  until  he  has  submitted  to  the  separa- 
tion, and  has  signed  the  deed."  In  those  words, 
he  had  urged  Anne  to  prompt  action.  He  had 
received,  in  return,  her  promise  to  be  guided  by 
his  advice.  She  had  gone  back  to  the  drawing- 
room  ;  and  Geoffrey  had  made  no  remark  on  her 
absence.  She  had  returned  to  Fulham,  alone 
with  him  in  his  brother's  carriage ;  and  he  had 
asked  no  questions.  What  was  it  possible,  with 
her  means  of  judging,  to  infer  from  all  this  ? 
Could  she  see  into  Sir  Patrick's  mind,  and  detect 
that  he  was  deliberately  keeping  his  own  convic- 
tion a  secret,  in  the  fear  that  he  might  paralyze 
her  energies  if  he  acknowledged  the  alarm  for  her 
that  he  really  felt  ?  No.  She  could  only  accept 
the  false  appearances  that  surrounded  her  in  the 
disguise  of  truth.  She  could  only  adopt,  in  good 
faith,  Sir  Patrick's  assumed  point  of  view  ;  and 
believed,  on  the  evidence  of  her  own  observation, 
that  Sir  Patrick  was  right. 

Toward  dusk,  Anne  began  to  feel  the  exhaust- 
ion which  was  the  necessary  result  of  a  night 
passed  without  sleep.  She  rang  her  bell,  and 
asked  for  some  tea. 

Hester  Dethridge  answered  the  bell.  Instead 
of  making  the  usual  sign,  she  stood  considering 
— and  then  wrote  on  her  slate.  These  were  the 
words:  "I  have  all  the  work  to  do,  now  the 
girl  has  gone.  If  you  would  have  your  tea  in  the 
drawing-room,  you  would  save  me  another  jour- 
ney up  stairs." 

Anne  at  once  engaged  to  comply  with  the  re- 
quest. 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  asked;  noticing,  faint  as 
the  light  now  was,  something  strangely  altered  in 
Hester's  manner. 

Without  looking  up,  Hester  shook  her  head. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  to  vex  you  ?" 

The  negative  sign  was  repeated. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?" 

She  suddenly  advanced  a  step  ;  suddenly  look- 
ed at  Anne ;  checked  herself  with  a  dull  moan, 
like  a  moan  of  pain ;  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room. 

Concluding  that  she  had  inadvertently  said,  or 
done,  something  to  offend  Hester  Dethridge. 
Anne  determined  to  return  to  the  subject  at  the 
first  favorable  opportunity.  In  the  mean  time, 
she  descended  to  the  ground-floor.  The  dining- 
room  door,  standing  wide  open,  showed  her 
Geoffrey  sitting  at  the  table,  writing  a  letter — 
with  the  fatal  brandy-bottle  at  his  side. 

After  what  Mr.  Speedwell  had  told  her,  it  was 
her  duty  to  interfere.  She  performed  her  duty, 
without  an  instant's  hesitation. 

"Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,"  she  said. 
"I  think  you  have  forgotten  what  Mr.  Speedwell 
told  you  about  that." 

She  pointed  to  the  bottle.  Geoffrey  looked  at 
it ;  looked  down  again  at  his  letter ;  and  impa- 
tiently shook  his  head.  She  made  a  second  at- 
tempt at  remonstrance  —  again  without  effect. 
He  only  said,  "All  right!"  in  lower  tones  than 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


235 


were  customary  with  him,  and  continued  his  oc- 
cupation. It  was  useless  to  court  a  third  repulse. 
Anne  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  letter  on  which  he  was  engaged  was  an 
answer  to  the  letter  received  that  day  from  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  He  had  reached  his  two  concluding 
sentences  when  Anne  spoke  to  him.  They  ran 
as  follows :  "I  may  have  news  to  bring  you,  be- 
fore long,  which  you  don't  look  for.  Stay  where 
you  are  through  to-morrow,  and  wait  to  hear 
from  me." 

After  sealing  the  envelope,  he  emptied  his  glass 
of  brandy  and  water ;  and  waited,  looking  through 
the  open  door.  When  Hester  Dethridge  crossed 
the  passage  with  the  tea-tray,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room,  he  gave  the  sign  which  had  been 
agreed  on.  He  rang  his  bell ;  and  called  for  a 
candle.  Hester  came  out  again,  closing  the 
drawing-room  door  behind  her. 

"  Is  she  safe  at  her  tea?"  he  asked,  removing 
his  heavy  boots,  and  putting  on  the  slippers  which 
were  placed  ready  for  him. 

Hester  bowed  her  head. 

He  pointed  up  the  stairs.  "You  go  first, "he 
whispered.  "No  nonsense!  and  no  noise!" 

She  ascended  the  stairs.  He  followed  slowly. 
Although  he  had  only  drank  one  glass  of  brandy 
and  water,  his  istep  was  uncertain  already.  With 
one  hand  on  the  wall,  and  one  hand  on  the  ban- 
istfer,  he  made  his  way  to  the  top ;  stopped,  and 
listened  for  a  moment ;  then  joined  Hester  in  his 
own  room,  and  softly  locked  the  door. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

She  was  standing  motionless, in  the  middle  of 
the  room — not  like  a  living  woman — like  a  ma- 
chine waiting  to  be  set  in  movement.  Finding 
it  useless  to  speak  to  her,  he  touched  her  (with  a 
strange  sensation  of  shrinking  in  him  as  he  did 
it),  and  pointed  to  the  partition  wall. 

The  touch  roused  her.  With  slow  step  and 
vacant  face — moving  as  if  she  was  walking  in  her 
sleep — she  led  the  way  to  the  papered  wall ;  knelt 
down  at  the  skirting-board ;  and,  taking  out  two 
small  sharp  nails,  lifted  up  a  long  strip  of  the 
paper  which  had  been  detached  from  the  plaster 
beneath.  Mounting  on  a  chair,  she  turned  back 
the  strip  and  pinned  it  up,  out  of  the  way,  using 
the  two  nails,  which  she  had  kept  ready  in  her 
hand. 

By  the  last  dim  rays  of  twilight,  Geoffrey  look- 
ed at  the  wall. 

A  hollow  space  met  his  view.  At  a  distance 
of  some  three  feet  from  the  floor,  the  laths  had 
been  sawn  away,  and  the  plaster  had  been  ripped 
out,  piecemeal,  so  as  to  leave  a  cavity,  sufficient 
in  height  and  width  to  allow  free  power  of  work- 
ing in  any  direction,  to  a  man's  arms.  The  cavi- 
ty completely  pierced  the  substance  of  the  wall, 
Nothing  but  the  paper  on  the  other  side  prevent- 
ed eye  or  hand  from  penetrating  into  the  next 
room. 

Hester  Dethridge  got  down  from  the  chair,  and 
made  signs  for  a  light. 

Geoffrey  took  a  match  from  the  box.  The 
same  strange  uncertainty  which  had  already  pos- 
sessed his  feet,  appeared  now  to  possess  his  hands. 
He  struck  the  match  too  heavily  against  the  sand- 
paper, and  broke  it.  He  tried  another,  and  struck 
it  too  lightly  to  kindle  the  flame.  Hester  took 
the  box  out  of  his  hands.  Having  lit  the  candle, 
she  held  it  low,  and  pointed  to  the  skirting-board. 

Two  little  hooks  were  fixed  into  the  floor,  near 


the  part  of  the  wall  from  which  the  paper  had 
been  removed.  Two  lengths  of  fine  and  strong 
string  were  twisted  once  or  twice  round  the  hooks. 
The  loose  ends  of  the  string,  extending  to  some 
length  beyond  the  twisted  parts,  were  neatly  coiled 
away  against  the  skirting-board.  The  other  ends, 
drawn  tight,  disappeared  in  two  small  holes  drilled 
through  the  wall,  at  a  height  of  a  foot  from  the 
floor. 

After  first  untwisting  the  string  from  the  hooks, 
Hester  rose,  and  held  the  candle  so  as  to  light  the 
cavity  in  the  wall  Two  more  pieces  of  the  fine 
string  were  seen  here,  resting  loose  upon  the  un- 
even surface  which  marked  the  lower  boundary 
of  the  hollowed  space.  Lifting  these  higher 
strings,  Hester  lifted  the  loosened  paper  in  the 
next  room— the  lower  strings,  which  had  previ- 
ously held  the  strip  firm  and  flat  against  the 
sound  portion  of  the  wall,  working  in  their  holes, 
and  allowing  the  paper  to  move  up  freely.  As  it 
rose  higher  and  higher,  Geoffrey  saw  thin  strips 
of  cotton  wool  lightly  attached,  at  intervals,  to  the 
back  of  the  paper,  so  as  effectually  to  prevent  it 
from  making  a  grating  sound  against  the  wall. 
Up  and  up  it  came  slowly,  till  it  could  be  pulled 
through  the  hollow  space,  and  pinned  up  out  of 
the  way,  as  the  strip  previously  lifted  had  been 
pinned  before  it.  Hester  drew  back,  and  made 
way  for  Geoffrey  to  look  through.  There  was 
Anne's  room,  visible  through  the  wall !  There 
was  the  pillow  on  which  her  head  would  rest  at 
night,  within  reach  of  his  hands ! 

The  deadly  dexterity  of  it  struck  him  cold. 
His  nerves  gave  way.  He  drey/  back  with  a  start 
of  guilty  fear,  and  looked  round  the  room.  A 
pocket  flask  of  brandy  lay  on  the  table  at  his  bed- 
side. He  snatched  it  up,  and  emptied  it  at  a 
draught — and  felt  like  himself  again. 

At  the  same  moment,  Anne's  voice  reached  his 
ears  from  below,  calling  for  "Mrs.  Dethridge." 

It  was  impossible  to  say  what  might  happen 
next.  In  another  minute,  she  might  go  up  to 
her  room,  and  discover  every  thing.  Geoffrey 
pointed  to  the  wall. 

"  Put  it  right  again,"  he  said.     « '  Instantly !" 

It  was  soon  done.  All  that  was  necessary  was 
to  let  the  two  strips  of  paper  drop  back  into  their 
places — to  fasten  the  strip  to  the  wall  in  Anne's 
room,  by  tightening  the  two  lower  strings — and 
then  to  replace  the  nails  which  held  the  loose 
strip  on  Geoffrey's  side.  In  a  minute,  the  wall  had 
reassumed  its  customary  aspect. 

They  stole  out,  and  looked  over  the  stairs  into 
,the  passage  below.  After  calling  uselessly  for 
the  second  time,  Anne  appeared ;  crossed  over 
to  the  kitchen  ;  and,  returning  again  with  the 
kettle  in  her  hand,  closed  the  drawing-room  door. 

Hester  Dethridge  waited  impenetrably  to  re- 
ceive her  next  directions.  There  were  no  further 
directions  to  give.  The  means  were  all  prepared : 
the  manner  in  which  she  had  taken  her  husband's 
life  was  too  plainly  evident,  now,  to  need  demon- 
stration. Nothing  but  the  opportunity,  and  the 
resolution  to  profit  by  it,  were  wanting  to  lead 
the  way  to  the  end.  Geoffrey  proceeded  down 
stairs. 

"  Get  back  into  the  kitchen,"  he  said,  "  before 
she  comes  out  again.  I  shall  keep  in  the  garden. 
When  she  goes  up  into  her  room  for  the  night, 
show  yourself  at  the  back-door  —  and  I  shall 
know." 

Hester  set  her  foot  on  the  first  stair — stopped 


236 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


• — turned  round — and  looked  slowly  along  the 
two  walls  of  the  passage,  from  end  to  end — shud- 
dered— shook  her  head — and  went  slowly  on  down 
the  stairs. 

"What  were  you  looking  for?"  he  whispered 
after  her. 

She  neither  answered,  nor  looked  back — she 
went  her  way  into  the  kitchen. 

He  waited  a  minute,  and  then  followed  her 
down  the  stairs.  On  his  way  to  the  garden,  he 
went  into  the  dining-room.  The  moon  had  risen ; 
and  the  window-shutters  were  not  closed.  It  was 
easy  to  find  the  brandy-bottle  and  the  jug  of 
water  on  the  table.  He  mixed  the  two,  and 
emptied  the  tumbler  at  a  draught.  "  My  head's 
queer, "he  whispered  to  himself.  He  passed  his 
handkerchief  over  his  face.  "How  infernally 
hot  it  is  to-night!"  He  made  for  the  door.  It 
was  open,  and  plainly  visible — and  yet,  he  failed 
to  find  his  way  to  it.  Twice,  he  found  himself 
trying  to  walk  through  the  wall,  on  either  side. 
The  third  time,  he  got  out,  and  reached  the  gar- 
den. A  strange  sensation  possessed  him,  as  he 
walked  round  and  round.  He  had  not  drank 
enough,  or  nearly  enough,  to  intoxicate  him. 
His  mind,  in  a  dull  way,  felt  the  same  as  usual ; 
but  his  body  was  like  the  body  of  a  drunken  man. 

The  night  advanced;  the  clock  of  Putney 
Church  struck  ten. 

Anne  appeared  again  from  the  drawing-room, 
with  her  bedroom  candle  in  her  hand. 

"Put  out  the  lights,  "she  said  to  Hester,  at  the 
kitchen  door ;  "I  am  going  up  stairs." 

She  entered  her  room.  The  insupportable 
sense  of  weariness,  after  the  sleepless  night  that 
she  had  passed,  weighed  more  heavily  on  her 
than  ever.  She  locked  her  door,  but  forbore,  on 
this  occasion,  to  fasten  the  bolts.  The  dread  of 
danger  was  no  longer  present  to  her  mind ;  and 
there  was  this  positive  objection  to  using  the  bolts, 
that  the  unfastening  of  them  would  increase  the 
difficulty  of  leaving  the  room  noiselessly  later  in 
the  night.  She  loosened  her-dress,  and  lifted  her 
hair  from  her  temples — and  paced  to  and  fro  in 
the  room  wearily,  thinking.  Geoffrey's  habits 
were  irregular ;  Hester  seldom  went  to  bed  early. 
Two  hours  at  least — more  probably  three — must 
pass,  beforeitwould.be  safe  to  communicate  with 
Sir  Patrick  by  means  of  the  signal  in  the  win- 
dow. Her  strength  was  fast  failing  her.  If  she 
persisted,  for  the  next  three  hours,  in  denying 
herself  the  repose  which  she  sorely  needed,  the 
chances  were  that  her  nerves  might  fail  her, 
through  sheer  exhaustion,  when  the  time  came 
for  facing  the  risk  and  making  the  effort  to  es- 
cape. Sleep  was  falling  on  her  even  now — and 
sleep  she  must  have.  She  had  no  fear  of  failing 
to  wake  at  the  needful  time.  Falling  asleep,  with 
a  special  necessity  for  rising  at  a  given  hour 
present  to  her  mind,  Anne  (like  most  other  sens- 
itively organized  people)  could  trust  herself  to 
wake  at  that  given  hour,  instinctively.  She  put  her 
lighted  candle  in  a  safe  position,  and  laid  down 
on  the  bed.  In  less  than  five  minutes,  she  was 
in  a  deep  sleep. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  quarter  to  eleven. 

Hester  Dethridge  showed  herself  at  the  back 
garden  door.  Geoffrey  crossed  the  lawn,  and 
joined  her.  The  light  of  the  lamp  in  the  passage 
fell  on  his  face.  She  started  back  from  the  sight 
of  it. 


"What's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head ;  and  pointed  through  the 
dining-room  door  to  the  brandy-bottle  on  the 
table. 

"  I'm  as  sober  as  you  are,  you  fool !"  he  said. 
"  Whatever  else  it  is,  it's  not  that." 

Hester  looked  at  him  again.  He  was  right. 
However  unsteady  his  gait  might  be,  his  speech 
was  not  the  speech,  his  eyes  were  not  the  eyes,  of 
a  drunken  man. 

"  Is  she  in  her  room  for  the  night  ?" 

Hester  made  the  affirmative  sign. 

Geoffrey  ascended  the  stairs,  swaying  from  side 
to  side.  He  stopped  at  the  top,  and  beckoned  to 
Hester  to  join  him.  He  went  on  into  his  room ; 
and,  signing  to  her  to  follow  him,  closed  the  door. 

He  looked  at  the  partition  wall — without  ap- 
proaching it.  Hester  waited,  behind  him. 

"Is  she  asleep?"  he  asked. 

Hester  went  to  the  wall ;  listened  at  it ;  and 
made  the  affirmative  reply. 

.He  sat  down.  "My  head's  queer,"  he  said. 
"  Give  me  a  drink  of  water."  He  drank  part  of 
the  water,  and  poured  the  rest  over  his  head. 
Hester  turned  toward  the  door  to  leave  him.  He 
instantly  stopped  her.  "7  can't  unwind  the 
strings.  /  can't  lift  up  the  paper.  Do  it. " 

She  sternly  made  the  sign  of  refusal :  she  reso- 
lutely opened  the  door  to  leave  him.  "Do  you 
want  your  Confession  back?"  he  asked.  She 
closed  the  door,  stolidly  submissive  in  an  instant ; 
and  crossed  to  the  partition  wall. 

She  lifted  the  loose  strips  of  paper  on  either 
side  of  the  wall — pointed  through  the  hollowed 
place — and  drew  back  again  to  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

He  rose  and  walked  unsteadily  from  the  chair 
to  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Holding  by  the  wood-work 
of  the  bed,  he  waited  a  little.  While  he  waited, 
he  became  conscious  of  a  change  in  the  strange 
sensations  that  possessed  him.  A  feeling  as  of  a 
breath  of  cold  air  passed  over  the  right  side  of 
his  head.  He  became  steady  again :  he  could 
calculate  his  distances :  he  could  put  his  hands 
through  the  hollowed  place,  and  draw  aside  the 
light  curtains,  hanging  from  the  hook  in  the  ceil- 
ing over  the  head  of  her  bed.  He  could  look  at 
his  sleeping  wife. 

She  was  dimly  visible,  by  the  light  of  the  can- 
dle placed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  The 
worn  and  weary  look  had  disappeared  from  her 
face.  All  that  had  been  purest  and  sweetest  in 
it,  in  the  by-gone  time,  seemed  to  be  renewed  by 
the  deep  sleep  that  held  her  gently.  She  was 
young  again  in  the  dim  light :  she  was  beautiful 
in  her  calm  repose.  Her  hoad  lay  back  on  the 
pillow.  Her  upturned  face  was  in  a  position 
which  placed  her  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the 
man  under  whose  eyes  she  was  sleeping — the  man 
who  was  looking  at  her,  with  the  merciless  reso- 
lution in  him  to  take  her  life. 

After  waiting  a  while,  he  drew  back.  "  She's 
more  like  a  child  than  a  woman  to-night,"  he 
muttered  to  himself  under  his  breath.  He 
glanced  across  the  room  at  Hester  Dethridge. 
The  lighted  candle  which  she  had  brought  up 
stairs  with  her  was  burning  near  the  place  where 
she  stood.  "Blow  it  out,"  he  whispered.  She 
never  moved.  He  repeated  the  direction.  There 
she  stood,  deaf  to  him. 

What  was  she  doing?  She  was  looking  fixed- 
ly into  one  of  the  comers  of  the  room. 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


237 


He  turned  his  head  again  toward  the  hollowed 
place  in  the  wall.  He  looked  at  the  peaceful  face 
on  the  pillow  once  more.  He  deliberately  re- 
vived his  own  vindictive  sense  of  the  debi  that  lie 
owed  her.  "But  for  you,"  he  whispered  to 
himself,  "I  should  have  won  the  race:  but  for 
you,  I  should  have  been  friends  with  my  father : 
but  for  you,  I  might  marry  Mrs.  Glenarm."  He 
turned  back  again  into  the  room  while  the  sense 
of  it  was  at  its  fiercest  in  him.  He  looked  round 
and  round  him.  He  took  up  a  towel ;  consider- 
ed for  a  moment ;  and  threw  it  down  again. 

A  new  idea  struck  him.  In  two  steps  he  was 
at  the  side  of  his  bed.  He  seized  on  one  of  the 
pillows,  and  looked  suddenly  at  Hester.  "It's 
not  a  drunken  brute,  this  time,"  he  said  to  her. 
"  It's  a  woman  who  will  fight  for  her  life.  The 
pillow's  the  safest  of  the  two."  She  never  an- 
swered him,  and  never  looked  toward  him.  He 
made  once  more  for  the  place  in  the  wall ;  and 
stopped  midway  between  it  and  the  bed — stopped, 
and  cast  a  backward  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

Hester  Dethridge  was  stirring  at  last.  What 
was  she  doing  now  ? 

With  no  third  person  in  the  room,  she  was 
looking,  and  moving,  nevertheless,  as  if  she  was 
following  a  third  person  along  the  wall,  from  the 
corner.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  horror ;  her 
eyes,  opening  wider  and  wider,  stared  rigid  and 
glittering  at  the  empty  wall.  Step  by  step,  she 
stole  nearer  and  nearer  to  Geoffrey,  still  follow- 
ing some  visionary  Thing,  which  was  stealing 
nearer  and  nearer,  too.  He  asked  himself  what 
it  meant.  Was  the  terror  of  the  deed  that  he 
was  about  to  do  more  than  the  woman's  brain 
could  bear  ?  Would  she  burst  out  screaming, 
and  wake  his  wife  ? 

He  hurried  to  the  place  in  the  wall — to  seize 
the  chance,  while  the  chance  was  his. 

He  steadied  his  strong  hold  on  the  pillow. 

He  stooped  to  pass  it  through  the  opening. 

He  poised  it  over  Anne's  sleeping  face. 

At  the  same  moment  he  felt  Hester  Deth- 
ridge's  hand  laid  on  him  from  behind.  The 
touch  ran  through  him,  from  head  to  foot,  like 
a  touch  of  ice.  He  drew  back  with  a  start,  and 
faced  her.  Her  eyes  were  staring  straight  over 
his  shoulder  at  something  behind  him — looking 
as  they  had  looked  in  the  garden  at  Windygates. 

Before  he  could  speak  he  felt  the  flash  of  her 
eyes  in  his  eyes.  Before  he  could  think  she  flew 
at  his  throat  like  a  wild  beast.  The  feeble  old 
woman  attacked  the  athlete ! 

He  dropped  the  pillow,  and  lifted  his  terrible 
right  arm  to  brush  her  from  him,  as  he  might 
have  brushed  an  insect  from  him. 

Even  as  he  raised  the  arm  a  frightful  distor- 
tion seized  on  his  face.  As  if  with  an  invisible 
hand,  it  dragged  down  the  brow  and  the  eyelid 
on  the  right :  it  dragged  down  the  mouth  on  the 
same  side.  His  arm  fell  helpless ;  his  whole 
body,  on  the  side  under  the  arm,  gave  way.  He 
dropped  on  the  floor,  like  a  man  shot  dead. 

Hester  Dethridge  pounced  on  his  prostrate 
body — knelt  on  his  broad  breast — and  fastened 
her  ten  fingers  on  his  throat. 

The  shock  of  the  foil  woke  Anne  on  the  in- 
stant. She  started  up — looked  round — and  saw 
a  gap  in  the  wall  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  and  the 
candle-light  glimmering  in  the  next  room.  Pan- 
ic-stricken ;  doubting,  for  a  moment,  if  she  were 


in  her  right  mind,  she  drew  back,  waiting — listen- 
ing— looking.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  glimmer- 
ing light  in  the  room ;  she  heard  nothing  but  a 
hoarse  gasping,  as  of  some  person  laboring  for 
|  breath.  The  sound  ceased.  There  was  an  inter- 
val of  silence.  Then  the  head  of  Hester  Deth- 
ridge rose  slowly  into  sight  through  the  gap  in  the 
wall — rose  with  the  glittering  light  of  madness  in 
the  eyes  ;  and  looked  at  her. 

She  flew  to  the  open  window,  and  screamed  for 
help. 

Sir  Patrick's  voice  answered  her,  from  the  road 
in  front  of  the  cottage. 

"  Wait  for  me,  for  God's  sake!"  she  cried. 

She  fled  from  the  room,  and  rushed  down  the 
stairs.  In  another  moment,  she  had  opened  the 
door,  and  was  out  in  the  front  garden. 

As  she  ran  to  the  gate,  she  heard  the  voice  of 
a  strange  man  on  the  other  side  of  it.  Sir  Pat- 
rick called  to  her  encouragingly.  ' '  The  police- 
man is  with  us,"  he  said.  "  He  patrols  the  gar- 
den at  night — he  has  a  key."  As  lie  spoke  the 
gate  was  opened  from  the  outside.  She  saw  Sir 
Patrick,  Arnold,  and  the  policeman.  She  stag- 
gered toward  them  as  they  came  in — she  was 
just  able  to  say,  "Up  stairs !"  before  her  senses 
failed  her.  Sir  Patrick  saved  her  from  falling. 
He  placed  her  on  the  bench  in  the  garden,  and 
waited  by  her,  while  Arnold  and  the  policeman 
hurried  into  the  cottage. 

"  Where  first  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  The  room  the  lady  called  from,"  said  the 
policeman. 

They  mounted  the  stairs,  and  entered  Anne's 
room.  The  gap  in  the  wall  was  instantly  observed 
by  both  of  them.  They  looked  through  it. 

Geoffrey  Delamayn's  dead  body  lay  on  the 
floor  of  the  room.  Hester  Dethridge  was  kneel- 
ing at  his  head,  praying. 


(Epilogue. 

A  MORNING  CALL. 


I. 

THE  newspapers  have  announced  the  return  of 
Lord  and  Lady  Holchester  to  their  residence  in 
London,  after  an  absence  on  the  continent  of 
more  than  six  months. 

It  is  the  height  of  the  season.  All  day  long, 
within  the  canonical  hours,  the  door  of  Holchester 
House  is  perpetually  opening  to  receive  visitors. 
The  vast  majority  leave  their  cards,  and  go  away 
again.  Certain  privileged  individuals  only,  get 
out  of  their  carriages,  and  enter  the  house. 

Among  these  last,  arriving  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  is  customary,  is  a  person  of  distinction  who 
is  positively  bent  on  seeing  either  the  master  or 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  who  will  take  no 
denial.  While  this  person  is  parleying  with  the 
chief  of  the  servants,  Lord  Holchester,  passing 
from  one  room  to  another,  happens  to  cross  the 
inner  end  of  the  hall.  The  person  instantly  darts 
at  him  with  a  cry  of  "Dear  Lord  Holchester!" 
Julius  turns,  and  sees — Lady  Lundie ! 

He  is  fairly  caught,  and  he  gives  way  with  his 
best  grace.  As  he  opens  the  door  of  the  nearest 
room  for  her  ladyship,  he  furtively  consults  his 
watch,  and  says  in  his  inmost  soul,  "How  am  I 
to  get  rid  of  her  before  the  others  come  ?" 


238 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


Lady  Lundie  settles  down  on  a  sofa  in  a  whirl- 
wind of  silk  and  lace,  and  becomes,  in  her  own 
majestic  way,  "  perfectly  charming. "  She  makes 
the  most  affectionate  inquiries  about  Lady  Hol- 
chester,  about  the  Dowager  Lady  Holchester, 
about  Julius  himself.  Where  have  they  been? 
what  have  they  seen  ?  have  time  and  change  help- 
ed them  to  recover  the  shock  of  that  dreadful 
event,  to  which  Lady  Lundie  dare  not  more  par- 
ticularly allude  ?  Julius  answers  resignedly,  and 
a  little  absently.  He  makes  polite  inquiries,  on 
his  side,  as  to  her  ladyship's  plans  and  proceed- 
ings— with  a  mind  uneasily  conscious  of  the  in- 
exorable lapse  of  time,  and  of  certain  probabili- 
ties which  that  lapse  may  bring  with  it.  Lady 
Lundie  has  very  little  to  say  about  herself.  She 
is  only  in  town  for  a  few  weeks.  Her  life  is  a 
life  of  retirement.  "  My  modest  round  of  duties 
at  Windygates,  Lord  Holchester  ;  occasionally  re- 
lieved, when  my  mind  is  overworked,  by  the  so- 
ciety of  a  few  earnest  friends  whose  views  har- 
monize with  my  own — my  existence  passes  (not 
quite  uselessly,  I  hope)  in  that  way.  I  have  no 
news  ;  I  see  nothing — except,  indeed,  yesterday, 
a  sight  of  the  saddest  kind."  She  pauses  there. 
Julius  observes  that  he  is  expected  to  make  in- 
quiries, and  makes  them  accordingly. 

Lady  Lundie  hesitates ;  announces  that  her 
news  refers  to  that  painful  past  event  which  she 
has  already  touched  on ;  acknowledges  that  she 
could  not  find  herself  in  London,  without  feeling 
an  act  of  duty  involved  in  making  inquiries  at  the 
asylum  in  which  Hester  Dethridge  is  confined  for 
life ;  announces  that  she  has  not  only  made  the 
inquiries,  but  has  seen  the  unhappy  woman  her- 
self, has  spoken  to  her,  has  found  her  unconscious 
of  her  dreadful  position,  incapable  of  the  small- 
est exertion  of  memory,  resigned  to  the  exist- 
ence that  she  leads,  and  likely  (in  the  opinion  of 
the  medical  superintendent)  to  live  for  some  years 
to  come.  Having  stated  these  facts,  her  ladyship 
is  about  to  make  a  few  of  those  "remarks  appro- 
priate to  the  occasion,"  in  which  she  excels,  when 
the  door  opens ;  and  Lady  Holchester,  in  search 
of  her  missing  husband,  enters  the  room. 

II. 

There  is  a  new  outburst  of  affectionate  in- 
terest on  Lady  Lundie's  part — met  civilly,  but 
not  cordially,  by  Lady  Holchester.  Julius's  wife 
seems,  like  Julius,  to  be  uneasily  conscious  of  the 
lapse  of  time.  Like  Julius  again,  she  privately 
wonders  how  long  Lady  Lundie  is  going  to  stay. 

Lady  Lundie  shows  no  signs  of  leaving  the 
sofa.  She  has  evidently  come  to  Holchester 
House  to  say  something — and  she  has  not  said  it 
yet.  Is  she  going  to  say  it  ?  Yes.  She  is  go- 
ing to  get,  by  a  roundabout  way,  to  the  object  in 
view.  She  has  another  inquiry  of  the  affection- 
ate sort  to  make.  May  she  be  permitted  to  re- 
sume the  subject  of  Lord  and  Lady  Holchester's 
travels  ?  They  have  been  at  Rome.  Can  they 
confirm  the  shocking  intelligence  which  has  reach- 
ed her  of  the  "apostasy  "of  Mrs.  Glenarm? 

Lady  Holchester  can  confirm  it,  by  personal 
experience.  Mrs.  Glenarm  has  renounced  the 
world,  and  has  taken  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Holy  Catholic  Church.  Lady  Holchester  has 
seen  her  in  a  convent  at  Rome.  She  is  passing 
through  the  period  of  her  probation  ;  and  she  is 
resolved  to  take  the  veil.  Lady  Lundie,  as  a 
good  Protestant,  lifts  her  hands  in  horror — de- 


clares the  topic  to  be  too  painful  to  dwell  on — 
and,  by  way  of  varying  it,  goes  straight  to  the 
point  at  last.  Has  Lady  Holchester,  in  the  course 
of  her  continental  experience,  happened  to  meet 
with,  or  to  hear  of — Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth. 

"I  have  ceased,  as  you  know,  to  hold  any 
communication  with  my  relatives, "Lady  Lundie 
explains.  "  The  course  they  took  at  the  time 
of  our  family  trial — the  sympathy  they  felt  with 
a  Person  whom  I  can  not  even  now  trust  myself 
to  name  more  particularly — alienated  us  from 
each  other.  I  may  be  grieved,  dear  Lady  Hol- 
chester; but  I  bear  no  malice.  And  I  shall 
always  feel  a  motherly  interest  in  hearing  of 
Blanche's  welfare.  I  have  been  told  that  she 
and  her  husband  were  traveling,  at  the  time 
when  you  and  Lord  Holchester  were  traveling. 
Did  yon  meet  with  them  ?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other. 
Lord  Holchester  is  dumb.  Lady  Holchester  re- 
plies. 

"We  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth 
at  Florence,  and  afterward  at  Naples,  Lady 
Lundie.  They  returned  to  England  a  week 
since,  in  anticipation  of  a  certain  happy  event, 
which  will  possibly  increase  the  members  of  your 
family  circle.  They  are  now  in  London.  In- 
deed, I  may  tell  you  that  we  expect  them  here 
to  lunch  to-day." 

Having  made  this  plain  statement,  Lady  Hol- 
chester looks  at  Lady  Lundie.  If  that  doesn't 
hasten  her  departure,  nothing  will ! 

Quite  useless !  Lady  Lundie  holds  her  ground. 
Having  heard  absolutely  nothing  of  her  relatives 
for  the  last  six  months,  she  is  burning  with  curi- 
osity to  hear  more.  There  is  a  name  she  has 
not  mentioned  yet.  She  places  a  certain  con- 
straint upon  herself,  and  mentions  it  now. 

"And  Sir  Patrick?"  says  her  ladyship,  sub- 
siding into  a  gentle  melancholy,  suggestive  of 
past  injuries  condoned  by  Christian  forgiveness. 
"I  only  know  what  report  tells  me.  Did  you 
meet  with  Sir  Patrick  at  Florence  and  Naples, 
also  ?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  look  at  each  other  again. 
The  clock  in  the  hall  strikes.  Julius  shudders. 
Lady  Holchester's  patience  begins  to  give  way. 
There  is  an  awkward  pause.  Somebody  must 
say  something.  As  before,  Lady  Holchester  re- 
plies. 

"  Sir  Patrick  went  abroad,  Lady  Lundie,  with 
his  niece  and  her  husband  ;  and  Sir  Patrick  has 
come  back  with  them." 

"In  good  health  ?"  her  ladyship  inquires. 

"Younger  than  ever,"  Lady  Holchester  re- 
joins. 

Lady  Lundie  smiles  satirically.  Lady  Hol- 
chester notices  the  smile ;  decides  that  mercy 
shown  to  this  woman  is  mercy  misplaced ;  and 
announces  (to  her  husband's  horror)  that  she  has 
news  to  tell  of  Sir  Patrick,  which  will  probably 
take  his  sister-in-law  by  surprise. 

Lady  Lundie  waits  eagerly  to  hear  what  the 
news  is. 

"It  is  no  secret,"  Lady  Holchester  proceeds 
— "  though  it  is  only  known,  as  yet,  to  a  few  in- 
timate friends.  Sir  Patrick  has  made  an  import- 
ant change  in  his  life." 

Lady  Lundie's  charming  smile  suddenly  dies 
out. 

"  Sir  Patrick  is  not  only  a  very  clever  and  a 
very  agreeable  man,"  Lady  Holchester  resumes, 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


239 


a  little  maliciously ;  "he  is  also,  in  all  his  habits 
and  ways  (as  you  well  know"),  a  man  younger 
than  his  years.  It  is  only  doing  him  justice  to 
say  that  he  still  possesses  many  of  the  qualities 
which  attract  women — " 

At  those  last  words,  Lady  Lundie  starts  to  her 
feet. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Lady  Holches- 
ter,  that  Sir  Patrick  is  married  ?" 

"I  do." 

Her  ladyship  drops  back  on  the  sofa ;  helpless, 
really  and  truly  helpless,  under  the  double  blow 
that  has  fallen  on  her.  She  is  not  only  struck 
out  of  her  place  as  the  chief  woman  of  the  fam- 
ily, but  (still  on  the  right  side  of  forty)  she  is  so- 
cially superannuated,  as  The  Dowager  Lady 
Lundie,  for  the  rest  of  her  life ! 

"At  his  age!"  she  exclaims,  as  soon  as  she 
can  speak. 

"Pardon  me  for  reminding  you,"  Lady  Hol- 
chester  answers,  "  that  plenty  of  men  marry  at 
Sir  Patrick's  age.  In  his  case,  it  is  only  due  to 
him  to  say  that  his  motive  raises  him  beyond  the 
reach  of  ridicule  or  reproach.  His  marriage  is  a 
good  action,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word. 
It  does  honor  to  him,  as  well  as  to  the  lady  who 
shares  his  position  and  his  name." 

"A  young  girl,  of  course!"  is  Lady  Lundie's 
next  remark. 

' '  Xo.     A  woman  who  has  been  tried  by  no 


common  suffering,  and  who  has  borne  her  hard 
lot  nobly.  A  woman  who  deserves  the  calmer 
and  the  happier  life  on  which  she  is  entering 
now. " 

"  May  I  ask  who  she  is  ?" 

Before  the  question  can  be  answered,  a  knock 
at  the  house  door  announces  the  arrival  of  visit- 
ors. For  the  third  time,  Julius  and  his  wife  look 
at  each  other.  On  this  occasion,  Julius  inter- 
feres. 

"My  wife  has  already  told  you,  Lady  Lundie, 
that  we  expect  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  to 
lunch.  Sir  Patrick,  and  the  new  Lady  Lundie, 
accompany  them.  If  I  am  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  it  might  not  be  quite  agreeable  to 
you  to  meet  them,  I  can  only  ask  your  pardon. 
If  I  am  right,  I  will  leave  Lady  Holchester  to 
receive  our  friends,  and  will  do  myself  the  honor 
of  taking  you  into  another  room." 

He  advances  to  the  door  of  an  inner  room. 
He  offers  his  arm  to  Lady/ Lundie.  Her  lady- 
ship stands  immovable ;  determined  to  see  the 
woman  who  has  supplanted  her.  In  a  moment 
more,  the  door  of  entrance  from  the  hall  is 
thrown  open ;  and  the  servant  announces,  "  Sir 
Patrick  and  Lady  Lundie.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth." 

Lady  Lundie  looks  at  the  woman  who  has  tak- 
en her  place  in  the  family  circle ;  and  sees — 
ANNE  SILVESTER  ! 


THE  END. 


FRANKLIN   SQUARE,  NEW  YORK,  July,' 1870. 


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Memoir  of  Dr.  John  Scudder. 
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Cocker's  Christianity  and  Greek 
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and  Mental  Philosophy  in  Michigan 
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student  in  the  country  will  find  it  a  treasure." 

Smiles' s  Self-Help.  Self  -  Help ; 
with  Illustrations  of  Character,  Con- 
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constructed  entirely  for  their  tastes ;  his  topics  are  ad- 
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might  be  called  insidious  and  ensnaring  if  these  words 
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CONTENTS. 
Up  North.— The  Frozen  Sea.— The  Dvina.— Archan- 

f el.  — Religious  Life. — Pilgrims — Father  John. — 
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f9rod  the  Great. — Serfage. — A  Tartar  Court. — St. 
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Priests — A  Conservative  Revolution.  —  Secret  Po- 
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The  Volga.— Eastern  Steppe Don  Kozaks. — Under 

Arms. — Alexander. 

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intelligent  reading  Englishman.  The  book  is  in  many 
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of  life  and  character.— Sun  (London). 

We  claim  for  Mr.  Dixon  the  merit  of  havingtreat- 
ed  his  subject  in  a  fresh  and  original  manner.  He  has 
done  his  best  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  vast  country 
which  he  describes,  and  he  has  visited  some  parts  of  the 
land  with  which  few  even  among  its  natives  are  famil- 
iar, and  he  has  had  the  advantage  of  being  brought  into 
personal  contact  with  a  number  of  those  Russians 
whose  opinions  are  of  most  weight.  The  consequence 
is  that  he  has  been  able  to  lay  before  general  readers 
such  a  picture  of  Russia  and  the  Russian  people  as 
can  not  fail  to  interest  them. — Athenceum  (London). 

Mr.  Dixon's  book  will  be  certain  not  only  to  inter- 
est, but  to  please  its  readers,  and  it  deserves  to  do  so. 
It  contains  a  great  deal  that  is  worthy  of  attention, 
and  is  likely  to  produce  a  very  useful  effect.  The  ig- 
norance of  the  English  people  with  respect  to  Russia 
has  long  been  so  dense  that  we  can  not  avoid  being 
grateful  to  a  writer  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  make 
personal  acquaintance  with  that  seldom-visited  land, 
and  to  bring  before  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen  a  pic- 
ture of  its  scenery  and  its  people  which  is  so  novel 
and  interesting  that  it  can  scarcely  fail  to  arrest  their 
attention. — Saturday  Review  (London). 

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powerful  hand  is,  he  tells  us  in  his  Preface,  "the  new 
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meaning  to  be  free."  His  book  is  no  book  of  travels 
in  the  ordinary  sense,  although  much  travel  has  gone 
to  make  it.  It  describes  the  people  rather  than  the 
country:  it  analyzes  society  instead  of  photographing 
scenery.  Mr.  Dixon  has  succeeded  in  producing  a 
book  which  is  at  once  highly  valuable  and  eminently 
readable.  The  information  he  conveys  is  very  great, 
his  judgments  are  evidently  the  result  of  much  reflec- 
tion, and  his  style  is  singularly  forcible  and  pictur- 
esque.— The  Standard  (London). 


Life  and  Letters  of  Mary  Rus- 
sell Mitford.  The  Life  of  Mary  Rtis- 
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The  Life  of  Count  Bismarck. 
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Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  Explan- 
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Nothing  need  be  said  of  the  merits  of  this,  acknowl- 
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A  series  of  sensible,  well-written,  and  pleasant  es- 
says on  the  care  of  the  person,  manners,  etiquette,  and 
ceremonials.  The  title  Bazar  Book  is  taken  from  the  fact 
that  some  of  the  essays  which  make  up  this  volume 
appeared  originally  in  the  columns  of  Harper's  Bazar. 
This  in  itself  is  a  sufficient  recommendation — Harper's 
Bazar  being  probably  the  only  journal  of  fashion  in 
the  world  which  has  good  sense  and  enlightened  rea- 
son for  its  guides.  The  "Bazar  Book  of  Decorum" 
deserves  every  commendation. — Independent. 


Journal  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  s 
Visit  to  the  East.  Journal  of  a  Visit 
to  Egypt,  Constantinople,  the  Crimea, 
Greece,  &>c.,  in  the  Suite  of  the  Prince 
and  Princess  of  Wales.  By  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  WILLIAM  GREY.  \2mo,  'Cloth, 


All  her  remarks  show  good  sense  and  an  independ- 
ent spirit,  and  indicate  the  author  to  be  a  woman  of 
reflection  as  well  as  culture.—  .Boston  Traveller. 

The  style  of  the  book  is  fresh,  naive,  and  lively,  and 
one  can  not  read  it  without  feeling  that  the  author  is 
a  very  agreeable  and  estimable  person,  with  fresh  feel- 
ings, sharp  and  busy  eyes,  and  capacity  to  derive  much 
enjoyment  from  such  a  tour.—  Worcester  Spy. 


Draper's  American  Civil  War. 

History  of  the  American  Civil  War. 
By  JOHN  WILLIAM  DRAPER,  M.D., 
LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and 
Physiology  in  the  University  of  New 
York;  Author  of  "A  Treatise  on  Hu- 
man Physiology,"  "A  History  of  the  In- 
tellectiial  Development  of  Europe"  &*£. 
In  Three  Volumes.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50 
per  Vol. 

The  leading  political  questions  involved  in  the  na- 
tional legislation  for  nearly  half  a  century  are  amply 
discussed,  and  their  influence  on  recent  events  is  elu- 
cidated with  clearness  and  impartiality.  A  certain 
dramatic  aspect  is  given  to  the  successive  steps  which 
preceded  the  Rebellion,  from  the  movement  of  nullifi- 
cation to  the  conflict  in  Kansas.  The  novelty  of  the 
work  consists  not  so  much  in  the  exhibition  of  facts 
before  unkuown  as  in  the  effective  grouping  of  famil- 
iar evenrs  so  as  to  form  a  grand  historical  unity. — 
S.  Y.  Tribune. 

Marc Jis  Anglo-Saxon  Grammar. 
A  Comparative  Grammar  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Language ;  in  which  its  Forms 
are  Illustrated  by  those  of  the  Sanskrit, 
Greek,  Latin,  Gothic,  Old  Saxon,  Old 
Friesic,  Old  Norse,  and  Old  High-Ger- 
man. By  FRANCIS  A.  MARCH,  Pro- 
fessor of  the  English  Language  and 
Comparative  Philology  in  Lafayette  Col- 
lege; Author  of '" Method  of  Philolog- 
ical Study  of  the  English  Language," 
"A  Parser  and  Analyzer  for  Begin- 
ners," &*t.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 


Wincheirs  Sketches  of  Creation. 
Sketches  of  Creation :  a  Popular  View 
of  some  of  the  Grand  Conclusions  of  the 
Sciences  in  reference  to  the  History  of 
Matter  and  of  Life.  Together  with  a 
Statement  of  the  Intimations  of  Science 
respecting  the  Primordial  Condition  and 
the  Ultimate  Destiny  of  the  Earth  and 
the  Solar  System.  By  .ALEXANDER 
WINCHELL,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Geolo- 
gy, Zoology,  and  Botany  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Michigan,  and  Director  of  the 
State  Geological  Survey.  With  Illus- 
trations. 1 2  mo,  Cloth,  $2  oo. 

Professor  Winchell  presents  a  popular  view  of 
some  of  the  important  discoveries  and  conclusions 
of  modern  science,  and  has  succeeded  in  making 
a  book  of  much  interest.  There  are  very  many  per- 
sons who  desire  some  knowledge  of  the  origin,  con- 
struction, and  development  of  the  earth  and  of  its  re- 
lations to  the  other  bodies  in  the  solar  system,  yet 
have  neither  the  time  nor  the  patience  to  master  the 
details  of  the  subject.  Those  details  so  burden  ordi- 
nary geological  treatises  that  this  class  of  inquirers  is 
repelled  from  their  study.  They  will  find  this  sum- 
mary of  the  matter  better  adapted  to  their  purpose 
than  almost  any  thing  else  that  has  appeared.— Brook- 
lyn Eagle. 

A  popular  account  of  the  facts  and  conclusions  of 
geology  in  an  easy,  readable  style,  suited  for  all  class- 
es. While  faithful  to  science,  it  is  reverential  to  relig- 
ion and  the  Bible,  so  that  the  Christian  meets  with  no 
sneers  at  theology  or  miracles,  but  with  a  devout  rec- 
ognition of  God  as  the  author  of  the  system  of  nature. 
*  *  *  One  charm  of  the  work  is  that  it  treats  largely 
of  American  localities  and  phenomena,  thus  instruct- 
ing the  people  concerning  their  own  country. — A  dvance. 

We  scarcely  think  that  there  is  any  one  who  will 
find  this  book  uninteresting.  Its  scope  is  so  large,  its 
knowledge  so  varied,  its  explanations  of  popular  mys- 
teries so  gratifying,  and,  finally,  its  terrors  so  distant, 
that  it  will  be  a  novel  enjoyment  for  large  numbers  of 
readers,  and  a  pleasant  way  of  recalling  old  associa- 
tions of  former  studies  for  others. — Chicago  Times. 

Shows  large  knowledge,  and  is  written  with  an  elo- 
quence that  glows  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  His 
pen  pictures  are  so  striking  that  there  seems  little 
need  of  illustrations ;  but  these  are  so  numerous  and 
interesting  that  they  make  the  book  additionally  at- 
tractive.— Boston  Correspondent  of  Cincinnati  Chronicle. 

Tennyson  s  Poetical  Works.  Po- 
etical Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  Poet 
Laureate.  With  numerous  Illustra- 
tions and  Three  Characteristic  Portraits. 
New  Edition,  containing  many  Poems 
not  hitherto  included  in  his  collected 
works,  and  with  the  Idyls  of  the  King 
arranged  in  the  order  indicated  by  the 
Author.  %vo,  Paper,  50  cents ;  Cloth, 
$i  oo.  (Fortieth  Thousand.) 

The  print  is  clear  and  excellent ;  the  paper  is  good ; 
the  volume  has  illustrations  from  Dore,  Millais,  and 
other  great  artists.  Really,  the  edition  is  a  sort  of 
prodigy  in  its  way. — Independent. 

Those  who  want  a  perfect  and  complete  edition  of 
the  works  of  the  great  English  Poet  Laureate  should 
purchase  the  Harper  edition.— Troy  Budget. 

A  marvel  of  cheapness.— The  Christian  Era. 

The  whole  get-up  and  style  of  this  edition  are  ad- 
mirable, and  we  are  sure  it  will  be  a  welcome  addition 
to  every  book-case,  large  or  small.  But  the  marvel- 
ous thing  about  it  is  the  price,  which  is  only  one  dol- 
lar for  the  handsome  cloth  binding. —  Tribune  (Wil- 
mington, Del.) 

A  marvelous  instance  of  blended  beauty  and  cheap- 
ness.— Charleston  Courier. 


GEORGE   ELIOT'S   NOVELS. 

HARPER'S  NEW  COMPLETE  LIBRARY  EDITION,    WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ADAM  BEDE.     i2mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
FELIX  HOLT,  THE  RADICAL.     12 mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS,     izmo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
ROMOLA.     i2mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE,  AND  SILAS  MARNER,  THE  WEAVER 
OF  RAVELOE.     i2mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 


London  Review. 

It  was  once  said  of  a  very  charming  and  high-mind- 
ed woman  that  to  know  her  was  in  itself  a  liberal  ed- 
ucation ;  and  we  are  inclined  to  set  an  almost  equally 
high  value  on  an  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of 
"George  Eliot."  For  those  who  read  them  aright 
they  possess  the  faculty  of  educating  in  its  highest 
sense,  of  invigorating  the  intellect,  giving  a  healthy 
tone  to  the  taste,  appealing  to  the  nobler  feelings  of 
the  heart,  training  its  impulses  aright,  and  awaken- 
ing or  developing  in  every  mind  the  consciousness  of 
a  craving  for  something  higher  than  the  pleasures  and 
rewards  of  that  life  which  only  the  senses  realize,  the 
belief  in  a  destiny  of  a  nobler  nature  than  can  be 
grasped  by  experience  or  demonstrated  by  argument. 
In  reading  them  we  seem  to  be  raised  above  the  low 
grounds  where  the  atmosphere  is  heavy  and  tainted, 
and  the  sunlight  has  to  struggle  through  blinding 
veils  of  mist,  and  to  be  set  upon  the  higher  ranges 
where  the  air  is  fresh  and  bracing,  where  the  sky  is 
bright  and  clear,  and  where  earth  seems  of  less  ac- 
count than  before  and  heaven  more  near  at  home. 
And  as,  by  those  who  really  feel  the  grandeur  of 
mountain  solitudes,  a  voice  is  heard  speaking  to  the 
heart,  which  hushes  the  whispers  in  which  vanity,  and 
meanness,  and  self-interest  are  wont  to  make  their 
petty  suggestions,  and  as  for  them  the  paltry  pur- 
poses of  a  brief  and  fitful  life  lose  their  significance  in 
the  presence  of  the  mighty  types  of  steadfastness  and 
eternity  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  so,  on  those 
readers  who  are  able  to  appreciate  a  lofty  independ- 
ence of  thought,  a  rare  nobility  of  feeling,  and  an  ex- 
quisite sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  human 
nature,  "  George  Eliot's  "  writings  can  not  fail  to  ex- 
ert an  invigorating  and  purifying  influence,  the  good 
effects  of  which  leave  behind  it  a  lasting  impression. 

Worcester  Palladium. 

"George  Eliot,"  or  whoever  he  or  she  may  be,  has 
a  wonderful  power  in  giving  an  air  of  intense  reality 
to  whatever  scene  is  presented,  whatever  character  is 
portrayed. 

Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

She  resembles  Shakspeare  in  her  power  of  delinea- 
tion. It  is  from  this  characteristic  action  on  the  part 
of  each  of  the  members  of  the  dramatis  personce  that 
we  feel  not  only  an  interest,  even  and  consistent 
throughout,  but  also  an  admiration  for  "  George  El- 
iot" above  all  other  writers. 


Boston  Transcript. 

Few  women— no  living  woman  indeed— have  so 
much  strength  as  "George  Eliot,"  and,  more  than 
that,  she  never  allows  it  to  degenerate  into  coarse- 
ness. With  all  her  so-called  "masculine"  vigor,  she 
has  a  feminine  tenderness,  which  is  nowhere  shown 
more  plainly  than  in  her  descriptions  of  children. 

Saturday  Review. 

She  looks  out  upon  the  world  with  the  most  entire 
enjoyment  of  all  the  good  that  there  is  in  it  to  enjoy, 
and  with  an  enlarged  compassion  for  all  the  ill  that 
there  is  in  it  to  pity.  But  she  never  either  whimpers 
overs  the  sorrowful  lot  of  man,  or  snarls  and  chuckles 
over  his  follies  and  littlenesses  and  impotence. 

Macmillan's  Magazine. 

In  "George  Eliot's"  books  the  effect  is  produced 
by  the  most  delicate  strokes  and  the  nicest  propor- 
tions. In  her  pictures  men  and  women  till  the  fore- 
ground, while  thin  lines  and  faint  color  show  us  the 
portentous  clouds  of  fortune  or  circumstance  looming 
in  the  dim  distance  behind  them  and  over  their  heads. 
She  does  not  paint  the  world  as  a  huge  mountain 
with  pigmies  crawling  or  scrambling  up  its  rugged 
sides  to  inaccessible  peaks,  and  only  tearing  their  flesh 
more  or  less  for  their  pains.  *  •  •  Each  and  all  of 
"George  Eliot's"  novels  abound  in  reflections  that 
beckon  on  the  alert  reader  into  pleasant  paths  and 
fruitful  fields  of  thought. 

Spectator. 

"George  Eliot"  has  Sir  Walter  Scott's  art  for  reviv- 
ifying the  past.  You  plunge  into  it  with  as  headlong 
an  interest  as  into  the  present.  For  this  she  compen- 
sates by  a  wider  and  deeper  intellectual  grasp. 

Reader. 

Her  acquaintance  with  different  phases  of  outward 
life,  and  the  power  of  analyzing  feeling  and  the  work- 
ing of  the  mind,  are  alike  wonderful. 

Examiner. 

"  George  Eliot's  "  novels  belong  to  the  enduring  lit- 
erature of  our  country— durable,  not  for  the  fashiona- 
bleness  of  its  pattern,  but  for  the  texture  of  its  stuff. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


&  BBOTIIEES  Witt  send  either  of  the  above  books  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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FAPR  1  *  1979 


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